


To Be In Your Arms Again

by ScullyLikesScience



Series: Jon Snow Depression Hours [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It, I wrote this for myself but you can read it if you want to, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Pseudo-Incest, R Plus L Equals J, Season/Series 08, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and GRRM too if he plans on fucking over Jon Snow the same way, anyway what else?, fuck D&D
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 11:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18893689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyLikesScience/pseuds/ScullyLikesScience
Summary: Jon goes south to help Daenerys win the Iron Throne. Sansa goes south to save him."In winter, I plot and plan. In spring, I move." ~ Henry Rollins





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jon Snow deserved better, and so did Sansa.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I never meant to leave you there_   
>  _A crown of roses in your hair_   
>  _Along with everything you ever feared_   
>  _In every step I see your face_   
>  _And even though I'm miles away_   
>  _Just close your eyes, and you can feel me here_   
>  _Feel me here_
> 
>  
> 
>  _Don't give up even when I'm gone_  
>  _Don't give up_  
> 
>  
> 
> _From the grave I'll crawl_  
>  _Through pouring rain for you_  
>  _I would pay the cost to_  
>  _Be in your arms again_  
>  _The fire I would walk through_  
>  _For all the pain I caused you_  
>  _Oh, I would pay the cost to_  
>  _Be in your arms again_
> 
>  
> 
> _To be in your arms again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics in the summary are taken from the James Arthur song "From the Grave" from the GoT S8 soundtrack. I haven't decided if there will be smut in this yet or not. Depends on my mood, I guess. We'll see.

The cold grey light of dawn was breaking across the sky. Jon stared at the remains of the wight dragon, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. Was it truly over? Was the Night King really finished? Panting for breath, he ran towards the godswood. Once he was through its broken gate, he spied the lifeless body of Theon Greyjoy on the frozen ground, a spear through his chest. A deep sense of sadness welled up inside him at the sight, but he kept moving toward the heart tree. There sat Bran, seemingly unharmed, with Arya leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder and the other gripping the Valyrian steel dagger that had once belonged to Littlefinger’s Catspaw. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Turning around, Arya’s eyes widened at the sight of him, and she ran towards him. In a moment, her arms were wrapped around his waist, holding him tight. He hugged her to him with one arm, thanking the gods for his little sister. She’d saved them. All would have been lost without her in that moment. She quickly released him from her embrace, and he moved towards Bran.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The three-eyed raven looked up at him with the same impassive expression he always carried. “I am. Theon and Arya saved me.”

He nodded silently, wondering if his little brother would ever return to them. Turning, he saw Gendry hurrying into the godswood and towards Arya. They wrapped each other in a tight embrace. He stared, blinking. How did they know each other? He gaped as Gendry then lowered his head to kiss her, his mind filled with confusion. What…? How…? When…? But as he watched them gazing at one another tenderly, his thoughts suddenly turned to the one he loved.

“Sansa,” he breathed. Jon then ran out of the godswood, hurrying toward the crypts.

Looking at the top of the crypt stairs, the reanimated corpses of ancient Starks now splayed lifelessly on the ground, Sansa exhaled a sigh of relief and dropped the dragonglass dagger, silently thanking her sister’s foresight. Her heart in her throat, not knowing who or what awaited her on the other side of the crypts’ oak-and-iron doors, she began to ascend the stairway. Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, Gilly, and the other survivors followed behind her.

Unlocking the heavy doors, Sansa pushed them open and stepped out. The smell of blood and sweat and smoke hung heavy in the air. The courtyard was a ruin—crumbled stone and corpses everywhere. The carnage around her made her throat constrict, her eyes welling up with tears. Fear sunk its claws into her heart and she gazed about her with bated breath.

And then she saw him. Jon was rushing towards her with a blazing look in his eyes that could have set half the North on fire. Everything and everyone else forgotten, she began running to meet him. Without words, they collided and Sansa wrapped her arms around him. Tears poured down her face as they sunk to the ground. “I was so scared,” she cried, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

Jon closed his eyes and pulled her tighter against him. “It’s over now. The dead can’t hurt you. All that matters is that you’re alive.” He pulled away, his hands grasping her arms to hold her still, allowing him to look her over. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Choking back tears, Sansa shook her head. “I was scared I was going to lose you.”

He sighed, giving her a slight smile as he nodded. “Well, you didn’t lose me.” His face then grew serious, his comforting gaze becoming intent. “You _never_ lost me.”

She stared back at him, lips parting. He’d avoided her question, when he returned a week ago and they’d argued in their private office chamber. She’d asked him if he bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen for love, and he again told her it had been to save the North. But there had been something about his guilty expression, about his avoidance of her gaze and quickly leaving the room soon after, that had made her suspect otherwise. He was hiding something. Daenerys herself later confirmed as much. She only came to help the North because she loved Jon. But then the dragon queen told her she’d put aside her lifelong goal of winning the Iron Throne, and all for Jon. Because he’d somehow convinced her to.

_“Tell me, who manipulated whom?”_

Sansa smiled at Jon. She understood. “I know,” she whispered.

*****

The Great Hall was awash with the smells and sounds of the feast. Platters of roast meat and flagons of Dornish wine were being passed along all the tables. Jon watched as Sansa sat down across from Sandor Clegane. He watched them talk and smile. It seemed obvious to him that the Hound liked and respected her. He then saw her place her hand over his much larger one, and Jon felt a pang of jealousy. He wanted Sansa to be sitting with him instead, taking his hand in hers.

Jon quickly tore his gaze from his sister— _cousin_ —and scanned the room to see if he was being watched. Daenerys had departed the hall earlier, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t left spies behind. He had been watched carefully when on Dragonstone, all his correspondence read, and now that she knew the truth about his identity and viewed that truth as a threat, he could only assume every move he made, every person he spoke to, would be watched. How long had he been gazing at Sansa? Perhaps too long. Would it seem suspicious? He drained his goblet, gulping down the last of his wine, before staggering out of the hall into the dimly-lit gallery and heading back to the Great Keep. It would be safer in his chambers, alone.

Or so he had thought. His chamber door shut behind Daenerys. He turned and stared into the fire burning in the stone hearth. He’d once believed he had done the right thing in bending the knee to the Mad King’s daughter and securing her help to fight the Night King and his army. He also thought he had secured the North’s safety, ensured the dragon queen would make no threats to Sansa and Winterfell as he had once heard her speak of Cersei and the Red Keep. Yet ever since the dead had been defeated, managing his situation with Daenerys had become increasingly difficult.

He didn’t know what was more painful, being awake or asleep. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of burning castles and dead men rising from their graves. When awake, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares. Each day proved more and more volatile, the queen teetering between lust for him and paranoia about his claim. He didn’t know how to dissuade her of either. The idea that he might have to give in to one just to ease her mind of the other made him feel sick.

He had thought telling her the truth would free himself of her, would free the North. He’d been a fool. And thoughts of Sansa were more painful than a bed of nettles. The way the queen spoke of her made his stomach turn. She was threatened and intimidated by Sansa, and he knew the danger that put her in. If anything were to happen to her, his world would fall apart around him. He also wondered how she would react to his truth, what she would say upon learning he was a Targaryen. He wondered if she would still look at him the same. He desperately wanted to tell her, but Daenerys…

He began pacing the floor, trying to decide what to do. He tried to lay down but sleep was impossible. Time passed—he had no idea how much. His mind then made up, he leapt out of bed. He was soon stepping out into the torch-lit hallway. He made his way down the other end of the hall, coming to the lord’s chambers. Thankfully he hadn’t seen any of the queen’s men in this part of the castle. A Stark guardsman stood outside Sansa’s door. The man nodded his head in silent acknowledgment.

Jon knocked.

At the sound, Sansa looked up and stared. Who would be here at this hour? It was after midnight. Her stomach tightened in fear. Was something wrong? She crossed the stone floor and opened her door.

“Jon?” She stared, wide-eyed. His hair was messy, the half-bun coming loose, his nose was red, his eyes were glassy.

“There’s something we need to speak about,” he said. The words felt heavy on his tongue.

She nodded and stepped aside, opening the door fully to allow him entrance, before closing it behind him. She then turned to face him as he eyed her up and down. To her sudden embarrassment, she realized she was in nothing but her silk shift. She swallowed, unsure as to whether she should put on a robe or a cloak. But he was only her brother, so why should it matter? Yet her face burned and her stomach fluttered like butterflies trapped in a glass jar. She knew it mattered. It had always mattered.

Jon forced his gaze to her face, trying to push away the memory now burned into his mind. He couldn’t help staring at her breasts, at the way they moved under her loose shift, and now he’d never be able to get the sight out of his head. It would torment him day and night, he knew it would. He felt he was caught in a waking nightmare. The gods were punishing him. He knew not what for.

“I needed to see you,” he finally said. Feeling slightly dizzy, he took a step back to steady himself and put some much-needed distance between them.

“Are you drunk, Jon?”

He gulped. “Um… Yes, I am. A little bit drunk. Or I was.”

Arching her brow, she gave him a pursed look. “You _were_ drunk? Before or after you decided to come to my chambers?”

Their eyes met and held for a long moment. “What… what are you implying?” he asked, his guts suddenly twisting into knots. Did she know he wanted her? Was it that obvious? If it was obvious to her, then it could be obvious to…

Sansa closed her eyes and sighed. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She felt her face growing hot. “Go back to your room, Jon. Get some sleep.”

“I need to tell you something,” he implored. “We need to talk.”

“Do you think it’s best to tell me while you’re drunk, or should it wait until tomorrow?” she replied nervously. Why had he come at this hour? She was afraid they would say things they could never take back, which would injure them both to have said it. What good would come from speaking things aloud? But would holding it secret in their hearts make it any less true? If they never spoke of it, would it become only some half-remembered dream? Would it cease to be real?

Being drunk might ease the pain of it, he thought. But she was right. She was always right. “It can wait until tomorrow,” he finally said. He wasn’t sure he’d have the courage tomorrow. With a sigh he walked towards her chamber door. Grasping the latch, he opened it and began to walk out, before turning back to face her once again. He had to say something, tell her… Tell her…

“You were right,” he whispered, his voice full of anguish. “About everything, about Dragonstone. All of it.”

Before she could reply, he left. Sansa watched the door close behind him. Anger began to well up inside her, and her mind filled with worry. What had that Targaryen queen done to him? Righteous indignation filled her gut like molten gold. The war council was tomorrow. She was determined not to back down an inch.

*****

Jon stood in the godswood facing the Stark siblings. His guts twisted fiercely. Sansa didn’t want to sacrifice the North’s independence, but he couldn’t see that there was any way to unbend the knee. They couldn't back out of supporting Daenerys now, not without her raining dragonfire down on all their heads. He’d tried. He thought he could negotiate the claim that came with his identity for the North’s freedom. He’d counted on her love for him, the fact the truth made them family. He hadn’t accounted for what the truth would actually mean to her, to her desire for the Iron Throne above all things.

“We needed her,” Arya said to Sansa, before turning to look at him. “We needed her army, her dragons.”

He nodded. _But at what cost?_

“You did the right thing,” his little sister continued. “And we’re doing the right thing telling you we don’t trust your queen.”

“You don’t know her yet,” he sighed, unable to look them in the eye. If they did know her, they wouldn’t provoke her. This conversation alone could condemn them all. Defying the Targaryen queen would only result in more suffering and death for the North. Their only hope was to appease her, to help install her in the Red Keep, and then pray she never wanted to come to the North again. He wanted to get her away from Winterfell as quickly as possible.

“We’re family,” Arya asserted. “The four of us. The last of the Starks.”

Her words were like a spear to his gut. “I’ve never been a Stark.”

Sansa immediately stepped forward. “You are. You’re just as much Ned Stark’s child as any of us.”

Jon wanted to weep.

“You’re my brother,” insisted Arya. “Not my half brother or my bastard brother. My brother.”

He looked at Bran. The young man in the wheeled chair told him it was his choice. Jon gazed intently at Sansa. This was it—what he couldn’t say the night before. He wanted to do the right thing, to make the right decision. Daenerys wanted him to live a lie, and all to protect her goal of winning the Iron Throne. She didn’t want him to be her family. She wanted him to serve her, for the rest of his life, and to take the truth to the grave. Ned Stark took the truth to the grave. He kept his promise to speak Lyanna’s secret to no one, to protect her son. And it had kept Jon safe from King Robert. _But at what cost?_

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “But you have to swear you’ll never tell another soul.”

“What is it?” Arya asked.

Jon turned to Sansa. “You have to swear it before I tell you.”

She met his gaze. _The most heroic thing we can do now is look the truth in the face._ “How I can promise to keep a secret if I don’t even know what it is?”

“Because we’re family,” he stated emphatically.

Was this what he’d wanted to speak to her about last night? Something was troubling him. Sansa could see the anguish in his eyes, the turmoil etched across his face. “I swear it.”

He nodded.

“In the Year of the False Sprin—,” Bran started to relate.

Jon abruptly cut him off. “I’ll tell them.” And he did. He told the whole sordid tale of Rhaegar Targaryen, the crown prince who abandoned his wife and children to run off with Lyanna Stark, a girl of fifteen, and marry her in secret. A girl who, in her dying moments, made her brother promise to protect her newborn son from his best friend, the king. And that was exactly what Ned did. He protected the son of his beloved sister, the true heir to the Iron Throne, by hiding the boy in Winterfell and raising him as his bastard.

Tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes. She didn’t know who she truly felt sorrier for: her father, her mother, or Jon. “He should’ve told you the truth,” she finally spoke, hastily wiping the tears from her eyes. “He should’ve told my mother. He should’ve told all of us.”

“The truth would only have put you all in danger,” he contradicted. “He kept you all from being complicit in treason.” He swallowed. “Which is what I’m trying to do. You deserved to know the truth, but this is why you must never tell anyone what I’ve just told you. Never.”

“If something can be destroyed by the truth, then it deserves to be,” Sansa said with conviction. “Most people would rather deny a hard truth than face it. You had a mother who loved you, who’s last dying wish was to ensure you survived. You had a father who loved you, who raised you as his own. You’re the trueborn son and heir of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. You shouldn’t have to hide who or what you are. None of it.”

Jon stared at her pleading gaze, remembering the queen’s words the night before about the truth destroying them. His heart swelled. He’d never be able to put into words just how much he loved the woman standing in front of him. She was the strongest person he knew, much stronger than he was.

Arya came forward and hugged him. “You’ll always be my brother.” After a moment, she stepped back from the embrace. “Nothing will change that. I know you love Daenerys, but…”

“I don’t love her,” he blurted unexpectedly. Instantly he felt the knots in the pit of his stomach begin to loosen. The tightness in his chest started to dissipate. He felt as if he could breathe for the first time. An inexplicable sensation of relief spread through him, as if a weight that had been holding him down was suddenly lifted.

Sansa smiled, glad to hear it spoken aloud, and then quickly tried to suppress it. She stared down at her feet, and nervously played with her fingers. A flush crept up her neck and into her face. An intense feeling of joy rose up from somewhere deep inside her.

“But I thought…,” Arya trailed off, her brows furrowing in confusion.

“She _thinks_ I love her,” he revealed.

His little sister smirked. “And why does she think that?”

Jon averted his eyes from the Stark siblings. The deceit made him feel soiled. “Because I made her believe it.”

Arya stared in quiet amazement.

“You told me last night that I had been right about going to Dragonstone,” Sansa prompted gently, hoping the awkwardness of his drunken state could be forgotten. “What happened?”

“It was a trap, just like you said.” He took a deep breath. “Daenerys and Tyrion demanded I bend the knee. I refused. She said the North was in open rebellion and I was made prisoner on the island. They took our weapons and our ship. I had to do something. I had to persuade her to come north and help us fight. I had to make her trust me. When she finally promised to do so, I had to make sure she’d keep her word. I knew it was our only chance to survive. I believed we couldn't defeat the Army of the Dead without her.”

Jon gazed intently at Sansa. “ _That_ is why I bent the knee. That is the _only_ reason.”

She nodded her understanding.

“So now what?” Arya wondered. “How do we unbend the knee?”

“We can’t,” he said in a frustrated voice. “I swore our allegiance. She’d turn on the North. Our people have suffered enough.”

“But you’re the true king,” Sansa insisted. “And as long as you’re alive, you’ll be a threat to her.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “I don’t want to be king. That’s not something I’ve ever wanted. She knows I won’t press my claim against hers.”

She stepped closer. “Then what _do_ you want, Jon? Tell us. What do you want?”

Their eyes met and held. He wanted what he had always wanted ever since he could remember. He wanted to be a Stark. He wanted her. He wanted what he could never have. _For she was his secret treasure, she was his shame and his bliss. A chain and a keep are nothing, compared to a woman’s kiss._ It was the song Tyrion Lannister sang all those years ago as they rode to Castle Black together, and it was strange how quickly the words sprung to mind now. _Hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm._ It wasn’t exactly the song he’d wanted to hear on the long ride north away from everything he was leaving behind, knowing Sansa was going south to be Joffrey’s queen.

“I’m going to help Daenerys,” he finally said reassuringly. “And when she’s on the throne, a thousand miles away in King’s Landing, she won’t have need to bother with the North.” He gave Sansa and Arya a firm look. “And we shouldn’t give her a reason to. She will be a good queen, with the right people at her side. Her advisers want her to rule well. I believe she can.”

“How can you trust her when you just told us she’d made you her prisoner?” Arya challenged.

He hesitated. “She didn’t know me then. I was a stranger to her. She set me free. I’m not a prisoner anymore.” Jon hoped he sounded convincing, but the look on Sansa’s face wasn’t reassuring.

*****

Sansa’s eyes flew open and she stared up at the dove grey velvet canopy of her four-poster. Tears were streaming down the sides of her face. Her heart pounded beneath her ribs, fear gripping her chest. She’d laid awake for the longest time, unable to quiet her mind. When sleep had finally come at last, the nightmares had come with it. She had been down in the crypts again, the dead men rising unquiet from their burial places. But this time the corpse moving towards her had Ned Stark’s face. He’d called out to her. _You have to protect him!_ And then a dragon roared somewhere above. Winterfell was burning. The flames erupted inside the crypts. Her father’s skin blackened and burst, and she screamed.

She sat up in bed, trying to calm her heart and slow her panicked breathing. It was only a dream. Thoughts of Jon swirled inside her head. Tears once again pricked her eyes. She slid out of bed, sniffling. The embers burned faintly in the stone hearth. Crossing the floor to the oak chair, where her dark blue robe laid over the back, she slipped it on over her silk sleeping shift and opened the chamber door. Outside stood her guard, who gave a slight bow of his head as she passed.

At the other end of the rounded hallway, she came to Jon’s bedchamber. There was no guard posted. Her stomach knotted with anxiety. The captain of the household guard hadn’t deemed one necessary, now that Jon wasn’t king anymore. She hadn’t argued at the time. But now she knew the truth. She knew how dangerous he was to the dragon queen, who could easily have his throat slit in the night.

Sansa knocked on the door.

Turning from where he sat in front of the fire blazing in the hearth, Jon froze. _Please no. Not again._ Then he quickly realized Daenerys would never knock, and he let out a sigh of relief. He stood up and walked over to the chamber door, opening it just wide enough to glimpse Sansa standing on the other side. At the sight of her, his heart instantly lifted and a smile tugged at his lips. He opened the door wider and then took in her tear-stained cheeks, her usually perfect skin blotchy with emotion. His heart lurched.

“Sansa, are you all right?” he asked, stepping closer to her, studying her face. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“Did I wake you?” she said in reply, avoiding his questions.

Jon sighed. “No. I can’t sleep. Not sure if I want to…”

She nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “I had a nightmare.”

Memories suddenly came back to him, vivid memories of her arrival at Castle Black. On her first night there, he’d given her the Lord Commander’s bedchamber, while he took to sleeping in the adjoining solar. In the middle of the night, he was awoken by the sound of her screaming and then sobbing. He’d run into the bedchamber to find her inconsolable. He remembered her sinking into his lap on the floor, her face buried in his neck and arms clutched around his shoulders as she cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. After that first night, he’d taken to sleeping on the floor next to her, and more often than not, she’d lay with her arm hanging down beside the bed and they’d fall asleep with her fingers entwined with his. It took some time, but eventually the nightmares stopped.

Reaching for her, Jon ushered her inside his room, glancing down the hallway to see if there was any sign they were being watched. He didn’t trust the queen’s men, especially the Spider and his little birds. Once he closed the door, he went and pulled a second chair from against the wall and carried it over to place it beside his in front of the hearth. They sat together in comfortable silence for several minutes, the warmth of the fire enveloping them.

“Remember when we used to spend our nights like this?” she said in a voice soft with affection. “Before you left for Dragonstone?” She longed for those days. They almost felt like a lifetime ago.

Frowning, Jon nodded. Sadness clutched at his heart.

Regrets and painful memories then came forward in Sansa’s mind. “I’m sorry, Jon. I’m sorry my father never told you the truth. I’m sorry for how I treated you, how my mother treated you. I’m sorry you had to be the bastard of Winterfell. I’m sorry that your mother died, and you never got to know her. I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Ned Stark did what he thought was right, at great personal cost to himself and his family.” It was something he was starting to take courage in when thinking of his own situation. “The lies he told kept me alive, and his wife and children safe. He treated me like a son. I couldn’t have asked for a better father. And now I know the truth about my mother. She was the mother of my dreams, beautiful and highborn and she loved me.” _You may not have my name, but you have my blood._

Jon sighed. The initial pain he felt when first learning the truth had started to fade, and all that truly remained was a lingering sadness over what might have been had his mother survived. He felt no regrets about Rhaegar, but he wished Lyanna could’ve been a part of his life. How different things might have been. Maybe he still would’ve been raised alongside the Stark siblings in Winterfell, and as their cousin. Maybe he could’ve earned Sansa’s affection. And then maybe one day Lord Eddard would’ve allowed him to marry her, and claimed him for a real son.

Sansa turned from the crackling fire and smiled at him. “I wish I could say we should’ve known all along, but there’s not really a whole lot about you that is Targaryen.”

He quickly looked away from her and felt his face growing hot as he remembered shameful nights when he’d stroke himself to completion, his body wracked with pleasure and his mind swimming with thoughts of her. The guilt always tormented him afterwards, and he felt as though he was cursed with a bastard’s wanton nature. But he wasn’t a bastard—he was a Targaryen. Jon wasn’t sure which was worse.

And she wasn’t his sister. What had once been barred to him, now felt like something within his grasp. If only she felt the same way, but maybe in time she would. He could court her. He’d do whatever it took to earn her love, to be worthy of her. If only he was free. He didn’t want to leave her in the morning. He just wanted to stay like this, forever.

“You had a nightmare?” he prodded, wanting to change the subject and put off thinking about their separation.

Sansa heard the worry in his voice. “Not about Ramsay. I don’t really think about him anymore. I’ve been having the same nightmare since the battle. I’m down in the crypts. The dead are there and…” The sentence trailed off.

He was all too familiar. Dead men also haunted his dreams—dead men and dragonfire. “In time the dreams will stop. Thankfully they’re only dreams, and not our reality.”

“Yes, thanks to your benevolent queen,” she said with a tone of irritation.

“Sansa,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

She felt emotion rising up inside her. “I don’t want you to go to King’s Landing. You’re a Stark. You may not be my brother, but you’re my cousin. You’re my family. You don’t belong down there. You belong here in Winterfell, not in the south.”

Jon stared at her, and his heart swelled, full to bursting. Her words were a balm to his soul. Yet they couldn’t erase the fact he was born a Targaryen, that Winterfell had never been his rightful place. But he loved her all the more for saying it. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, he desperately wished he could say. He loved her more than anything, wanted her more than anything. She had no idea just how much. But he wasn’t free, and he refused to hurt her that way.

The fear rose up again. What if the queen were to walk in and find them sitting there together by the fire? Nothing good would come of it. Sansa was in danger just by being in the room alone with him. “I’m not going because I _want_ to,” he lamented. “I _have_ to. I pledged myself to her cause.”

“Yes, you did,” Sansa glowered at him, her look and the tone of her voice accusatory. She hadn’t wanted to think about it, about what he would’ve had to do make the queen love him. But thoughts of Jon and Daenerys together now swirled inside her head and made her feel sick. It was all wrong. He didn’t belong with her. “And she trusts you more than anyone in the world. She told me so. She knows you’re a man of your word.” Anger quickly becoming the dominating emotion, she stood up and started walking towards the door.

Jon followed her, annoyance and indignation welling up inside him. He should’ve known it wouldn’t have taken long for her to twist him into knots of frustration. He reached her just as she grasped hold of the latch, and he placed his palm on the door, keeping it shut.

“I am a man of my word. I’m not going to swear an oath I can’t uphold.”

“Like your Night’s Watch vows?” she snarked.

He stared at her, taken aback.

Sansa watched his lips part silently, saw the hurt expression in his eyes. Guilt rose up inside her. “I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean…”

“Yes, I broke my vows,” he affirmed. “For a greater cause. It was a question of survival.” His expression softened. “Do you know the first vow I took after my death released me from the Watch? The first oath I swore? The first promise I made?”

She gazed at him, her heart in her throat. His cheeks were deeply flushed, and his eyes sparkled.

“‘I’ll protect you, I promise,’” he reminded her. “And that’s what I’m doing. That’s all I’ve tried to do.”

Sansa moved closer, her face inches from his. “That wasn’t the first promise you made me,” she murmured. “‘Where will _we_ go?’” She felt hot tears begin to prick her eyes again. “Don’t leave. Stay with me. You belong with _me_ , and _only_ with me.” She hadn’t planned on saying this, but now that she’d spoken the words out loud, she knew them to be true. They would never be right for anyone else. They were only right for each other.

His heart melted. She was impossibly beautiful. The space around them suddenly grew heavy with a metallic feeling, like the air before a storm. They both felt something shift. Their gaze held for a tense moment, like the breathless pause between lightning and thunder. Something stirred inside him, a desire he hadn’t come close to experiencing since Ygritte’s death. He looked into her face, his gaze lingering on her lips, then traveling to her blue eyes again.

Jon stepped forward, closing the space between them, and slipped his arms beneath her robe, encircling her. The touch of his warm hands against her silk-covered flesh set Sansa’s heart racing, made breathing difficult, and sent a flush of warmth spreading out from the pit of her stomach, surging through her whole body. She made no move to extract herself from his arms, and caressed his face with the back of her hand. She took in his dark curls, his smooth neck, the bearded chin, his sensuous mouth, and finally the brown eyes that pierced her with their intensity. A powerful feeling welled up inside her, and she so badly wanted him to kiss her. The time for denials was over. They must face the truth now.

And yet an invisible barrier remained between them that he seemed unwilling to breach. Jon lowered his eyes from hers and pulled her tight against him. Sansa hugged him to her, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. “I can’t,” he finally whispered in her ear, his heart breaking. “I can’t stay. I can best protect you in King’s Landing, you and the North.”

Sansa pulled out of their embrace and stepped back to look at him. “But who’s going to protect you?” she whispered tearfully.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, making an effort to sound confident and reassuring though he avoided her direct gaze.

She gave him a sad smile and lifted her hand to his face, forcing him to look at her. Very lightly, she touched his cheek, caressing her thumb over his skin. He felt as if his heart was in his throat, and he swallowed against it. He wanted to take her in his arms again. He wanted to love her. If only he could.

Sansa felt as though he was holding something back. He smiled weakly, but she could see the misery in his eyes. He looked so broken, she wished she knew the whole truth of it. Was it his true identity? Leaving Winterfell and parting from her? Having to fight in yet another war? Serving the dragon queen in the capital? All of it? Whatever it was, he was trying to put on a brave face. She could try to get the truth out of him, but he’d become so evasive ever since he returned home that she felt it would be in vain.

“Goodnight, Jon,” she whispered, lowering her hand from his face.

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

She turned and grasped the latch, opening the door.

Jon wished he could stay. He’d never meant to leave her, ever. But duty now called him elsewhere. He could only hope that someday he would return to the North. He was determined to do everything in his power to come home to her. Once the war was won and Daenerys had her throne, he hoped she would let him go. But as soon as Sansa disappeared on the other side of his chamber door and he was alone, Jon’s hopes began to fade and the familiar crushing sense of despair rose up inside him once more.

*****

The castle courtyard was a din of noise. Builders were repairing the walls and towers. Men and women moved about, busy with their work. Wagons and horses moved in and out through the main gates. But the noise around him faded away as Jon gazed down at Gilly’s pregnant belly. He felt hot tears prick his eyes, emotion welling up inside him.

A child of his own was something he’d never dared dream of, not as a boy on the verge of manhood who had believed a celibate life on the Wall was better than an impossible love for a half-sister. Even when he left the Night’s Watch, a wife and children were out of reach, his love still impossible. He’d rather go without than have anyone other than her. Now everything had changed. It was just his luck that although finally learning the truth that would’ve allowed him to pursue what he most wanted, he’d sworn himself to another. And she would tolerate no rival—for his loyalties or affections.

“If it’s a boy, we want to name him Jon.”

He raised his eyes to Gilly’s face and glanced at Sam. They were probably the happiest people he knew. He was unworthy of such an honor. “I hope it’s a girl.”

Jon then exchanged farewells with Tormund, who was taking the wildlings back to their real home, where they belonged. The idea of living as a free man, without a care in the world except settling down with a family, seemed like a dream to him. He’d much rather be going north than south. Maybe they’d see each other again, but he had a hard time believing it.

He turned to see Ghost in the courtyard watching him. White fur and red eyes, like the weirwood tree, a walking symbol of the North, of House Stark. He felt his throat tighten as something deep inside his chest clutched at him and ached. “Take him with you when you go. A direwolf has no place in the south.”

He walked away from Tormund and went to one knee in front of Ghost. There was comfort in the familiar smell of him. The grief that welled up inside him was overwhelming. Jon then buried his face in his thick white fur and cried, as if he was once again that lonely boy far from home at Castle Black. After a few moments, he pulled away and the direwolf licked at his salty tears. “Ghost,” he said quietly. “I can’t take you with me. Lady died on the kingsroad. Grey Wind suffered a worse fate. I won’t let that happen to you. I won’t.”

Jon felt his heart breaking into a million pieces, tiny shards that stabbed him over and over again. Fresh tears leaked from his eyes as he remembered that fateful day in the wolfswood when he found Ghost. “I’m not a Stark, boy. I was never meant to have you. You’ll be happier up north, where you can roam free and hunt and sire some pups. One of us should, at least.”

Ghost licked his face again as he scratched the white fur on his neck. With a heavy heart, Jon walked away. He scanned the courtyard and the tower walkways and battlements. There was no sign of Sansa. Perhaps that was for the best. They said all they could say the night before. He couldn’t bear to look into her eyes to find pain and disappointment there, knowing he was the cause. The best he could do was protect her and keep her safe, and this was the only way he could see how.

On the long ride south, memories of Sansa’s touch, the feel of her arms around him, and all that he left behind was a constant torment. When he slept, he dreamed: peaceful dreams of home, Sansa, and a little girl in his arms who looked like Arya. The dreams provided Jon with short-lived comfort and happiness, smothering his hopelessness with belief and promise.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa walked across the courtyard with Brienne, the scroll from Lord Varys in her hand. Daenerys was down another dragon. Her ships were destroyed and many of her soldiers killed. On the surface, this was good news to hear. The dragon queen’s strength was dwindling, at least her strength in numbers. Yet he had concluded the message saying her advisers were concerned about her. In the war council, they had managed to convince her to set up a siege instead of attacking the city directly, but losses this great could compel the queen to do something desperate.

She remembered Tyrion’s stunned, disillusioned face as he turned from her and walked away. He really was a fool, and a blind one. It was clear to her now—Daenerys Targaryen was Joffrey with tits. She knew a tyrant when she saw one. It was hard to believe Tyrion, of all people, wouldn’t have recognized this as well. But maybe he did, and he was just too afraid to admit it. He wasn’t the only one who was afraid.

She finally understood what was going on with Jon. His evasiveness and avoidance, his staunch support of the Mad King’s daughter and his weak yet constant attempts to convince them to accept her, the anguish behind his eyes—it was fear. _The North is a part of me, and I’ll never stop fighting for it._ And this was how he had chosen to fight. She now knew in her heart that he only went south to keep Daenerys away from the North, knowing his chances of returning were small to none. He couldn’t do or say anything to make her suspect he was disloyal. He was terrified of the queen and what she could do, not only to their family and the North but to him. He was risking his own life for them. Once Daenerys realized he didn’t truly love her, or when the threat of his claim inevitably started to outweigh her own feeling for him, he was done for. She'd never let him live. The trueborn son of Rhaegar was a much greater threat than Ned Stark’s bastard or the Lady of Winterfell.

Sansa knew Tyrion would have to tell someone, most likely Lord Varys. There was no way he could keep a piece of information so huge all to himself. And she’d observed Varys lurking in the shadows, passing notes to children in the crypts and the courtyard. He was in constant correspondence with others down south. She noticed the way he looked at the dragon queen during the war council. Daenerys made the Spider nervous when speaking of attacking King’s Landing. She also noted the way he looked at her when she alone spoke out against the queen’s foolish plans. He appreciated her sound judgment. If Tyrion told Lord Varys, then she could almost guarantee the truth wouldn't stay a secret for very long.

For a brief moment, Sansa had doubted whether she had done the right thing. She’d swore beneath the heart tree to never tell anyone the truth about Jon. But hiding the truth was cowardly, and dangerous. The secret must spread, far and wide. The realm had to know. It was the only way to save him from Daenerys. He was just one man against a Targaryen queen with two dragons and two armies. Unless the realm backed him.

And she knew what she had to do. The thought of returning south, returning to King’s Landing, made her stomach twist into knots. She had vowed many times to never go back there, that she would rather die than go back there. _But I must be brave, like Robb,_ she told herself. _Like my mother._ Her brother had gone south to try and save their father, and then he went to war for the North. Her mother had done the same. But where they had tragically failed, she was determined to succeed.

Steeling herself, Sansa turned and approached one of the castle guards. “Find Samwell Tarly, Lord Royce, and Maester Wolkan, and have them sent to my office chamber.”

“Yes, milady.”

It wasn’t long before all three men were sitting across from her at the table. The maester had gathered scrolls and ink, and sat with quill in hand. She turned to the man they called Bronze Yohn in the Vale. “Lord Royce, do you want Daenerys Targaryen to be your queen? Do you think the realm will benefit from her rule?”

He pursed his lips. “Certainly not. Targaryens are not to be trusted, the Mad King’s daughter least of all. She has _dragons_.” He sneered.

“And what is your opinion of Jon Snow and how he ruled the North?” she inquired.

“Well, in the _short_ time he was king,” he began with a disapproving frown. “I would say he was just and fair. He’s a skilled battle commander, and a war hero. He defended the Wall against the wildlings. He fought for Winterfell. He brought the realm together to fight the dead. Everyone knows that, but this Targaryen queen business… No offense, my lady, but I can’t…”

Sansa held up her hand to quiet him. “He’s protecting the North _from_ her, Lord Royce, and nothing more. Do you believe Jon is trustworthy? Do you think my people would suffer if he were to rule again?”

The Lord of Runestone sighed. “Of course, they wouldn’t. He’s a man of honor, just like his father. It’s plain to see.”

Sansa eyed him, her mouth curving into a slight smirk. “Yes, about that…” She then told the tale that Jon had told her in the godswood, complete with every small detail she could possibly get out of Bran when they spoke in private later.

Bronze Yohn had been stunned into silence. Maester Wolkan stared, his mouth agape. “Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie,” he said in a bemused tone.

“I should think not,” she snapped. “The rebellion was _built_ on the Mad King murdering my uncle and grandfather. We didn’t go to war against the crown because the prince ran off with my aunt. It was because the king roasted the Lord of Winterfell alive and killed his heir, and then demanded Lord Arryn hand over my father’s head. He wanted to annihilate House Stark.”

“He wanted Robert Baratheon’s head as well,” Lord Royce interjected. “So, Jon Arryn raised his banners.”

“If your memory isn’t what it used to be, Wolkan, then perhaps you should write to the Citadel and ask them to let you retire,” Samwell Tarly proposed sardonically.

“We can then send for a maester who is fully informed of the history of this House,” snarked Sansa.

Maester Wolkan blanched. “I beg your pardon, Lady Stark, I did not mean to offend…”

She turned back to Lord Royce. “The North and the Vale have been formidable allies for decades. The last time our kingdoms went to war together, we brought down the Targaryen dynasty. We can’t let Daenerys take the throne. It would be a betrayal of my father’s memory, of Jon Arryn’s.”

He gave her a serious nod. “I suppose you want Jon Snow on the throne.”

Sansa hesitated, and she glanced at Sam Tarly, who gave her an uncertain smile. “That will be up to him, if he chooses it. And if he does?”

“It’s not my place to speak for my lord, but… Jon will have the full support of the Vale.”

“How many of the Vale’s knights are here in Winterfell?” she questioned.

Bronze Yohn thought for a moment. “Of the five thousand that rode north to fight the Boltons, about half remain.”

She nodded. “And how many knights are in the Vale protecting their lord?”

“Five thousand. But if Lord Arryn were to call his banners, the Vale could easily assemble a host with eight thousand more.”

A thrill went through her at hearing this. Almost sixteen thousand men. “Write to Lord Robin,” she instructed him. “Request he raise his banners and meet us at the Crossroads. We’ll then ride down to King’s Landing together.”

Lord Royce took up a quill and ink and immediately began to write. Sansa turned her attention to the map on the table and then addressed the maester. “Write to my uncle, Edmure Tully, at Riverrun, and inform him about Jon, about who he is and what Ned Stark did to protect him. He’s going to call House Tully’s banners and meet us on the kingsroad near Harrenhal. If he wants to refuse, make sure he knows that this is his one chance to make amends for how useless he proved to be when fighting for Robb. Tell him…” She paused. “ _Remind him_ of what happened to House Frey and how he was freed from their dungeon by one Faceless assassin. Tell him if he refuses to repay that debt, Arya Stark will pay him a visit in the night and we’ll take command of Riverrun in our mother’s name. End the message with, ‘the North remembers,’ and then give it to me to sign and seal.”

“Yes, my lady,” the maester replied, wide-eyed, and began to write.

“The Reach had forty thousand fighting men, but I’m not sure how many there are now,” Sam related. “Between the War of Five Kings and the sacking of Highgarden, I would venture about twenty-five remain. I’ll write the noble houses, tell them about Jon, and ask they raise their banners to avenge House Tarly.” He grabbed a quill and dipped the sharp tip into a small pot of jet-black ink.

She nodded. “And then write to the new Lord of Storm’s End as well.”

When that was finished, Sansa turned her thoughts further south. “At the war council, Lord Varys mentioned the new Prince of Dorne had allied himself with Daenerys. Well, that was before he knew there was another choice. We’ll send a message to Sunspear.”

Maester Wolkan paused. “My lady, House Martell may not want to back the son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. Not after what happened to Princess Elia and her children.”

She sat back in her chair and considered this. Maester Luwin’s voice rang inside her head, and she remembered one of his many history lessons. “Tell the Prince of Dorne that I am a great admirer of Meria Martell. She would not fight, and she would not kneel. I respect that, and I respect their House words. I may be asking them to fight, but I will not ask them to kneel. Unlike Daenerys, Jon will never bend them, break them, or make them bow. If they so wish it, Dorne will have their freedom, but only if they back him against the Mad King’s daughter.”

The maester nodded and began to write. Sansa sighed and her thoughts turned to Jon. She hoped he was keeping himself safe, she hoped he was playing it smart. He needed to be to survive down south. He’d survived Dragonstone, but King’s Landing was a different beast. She hoped the letters worked, that they would receive a positive response. During Robert’s Rebellion, thousands went to war to fight for Rhaegar. The people loved him. Thousands also went to war to fight against him, to fight for House Stark. If anyone could mend the lasting hurt this had brought on the realm, it was Jon.

Later that night, Sansa lay awake staring up at the grey velvet canopy of her four-poster featherbed, but she couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts dwelt on the past, memories of her foolish childhood plaguing her.

_“I’m to marry Prince Joffrey. I love him, Father. I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. And I’m meant to be his queen and have his babies!”_

_“Sweet one, listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me.”_

_“I don’t want someone brave and gentle and strong. I want him!”_

The bitter pain of regret filled her heart and brought tears to her eyes when she remembered the foolish adoration she had felt for Joffrey and the scornful way she had treated Jon. She’d been a stupid girl with stupid dreams of princes and knights and courtly love, and her real Prince Aemon had been right under her nose the whole time. And now when her childish dreams seemed the most within reach, it no longer mattered to her whether her match was a knight or a prince, whether he was trueborn or baseborn. What were princes and knights compared to a truly good man, one who was brave and gentle and strong? She’d known the truth of her feelings long before his true identity—Jon was Jon, and he was the only one for her.

As she lay there, painful thoughts of the past turned into hopeful thoughts for the future. Missing Jon was a constant ache inside of her and she longed to see him again. She wouldn’t be content until she could see his face, hear his voice, and hold him in her arms. Sansa imagined their reunion in King’s Landing—the silver lining in her inevitable return to the place where her dreams had died along with her father. She imagined their triumphant homecoming to Winterfell when the war was finally over. She imagined them standing before the heart tree, being declared man and wife, and her body warmed at the thought. She eventually fell asleep dreaming of his strong arms holding her tightly, of whispered words of desire and demanding kisses and caressing hands that set her body aflame and made her forget that loving him had ever been wrong.

*****

As Jon watched the approaching shoreline of Dragonstone, his guts twisted so fiercely he thought he might be sick. Twice before, he’d left this island vowing never to return and here he was. He couldn’t escape it. Yet now he brought something with him he didn’t have before: the truth. This had been Rhaegar’s home before he eloped to Dorne with Lyanna Stark. He wondered if the prince had found the island just as gloomy and suffocating as he did, if the prince had felt trapped and unhappy and had simply wanted to be somewhere far away with a girl from the North.

Thoughts of Sansa swirled inside his head as the boat touched the sandy shore of the beach, but those thoughts quickly dissipated at the sight of Lord Varys, the Spider who watched his every move and read his every scroll. And who had once whispered fearmongering ideas into the Mad King’s ear and poisoned him against his own son and heir. Jon hardened his expression as he stepped out of the boat, disappearing behind his mask. It was becoming easier and easier now.

“The northern armies?” Varys asked in greeting.

“They just crossed the Trident. They’ll be at the walls of King’s Landing in a fortnight.” He groaned internally. Time to be the dutiful servant. “How is she?” he asked. When they’d stopped at the Crossroads, he’d received a raven with news of Rhaegal, the Targaryen fleet, and Missandei.

“She hasn’t seen anyone since we arrived, hasn’t left her chambers, hasn’t accepted any food.”

Great. That’s exactly what he needed. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

The eunuch kept in step with him up the beach. “I admire your empathy.”

“Aren’t you worried for her?” Jon questioned. Such losses would likely put Daenerys in a desperate position, and it would be even more difficult to rein in her violent impulses.

Varys paused before answering. “I’m worried for all of us. They say every time a Targaryen is born the gods toss a coin, and the world holds its breath.”

Was the Spider trying to trip him up? “They’re not much for riddles where I’m from.”

“We both know what she’s about to do.”

Jon stopped walking and turned to look at him. Was this some kind of test? “That’s her decision to make. She is our queen.”

Lord Varys was unreadable. “Men decide where power resides, whether or not they know it.”

Was Daenerys trying to learn just how far his loyalty would go in the face of an impending atrocity? To learn if she could count on his support no matter what? He clenched his jaw and faced the eunuch squarely. “What do you want?”

“All I’ve ever wanted: the right ruler on the Iron Throne.”

Stomach twisting into fearful knots, Jon stared. This was about him, not Daenerys. How did the eunuch know? The queen had told him to tell no one, to swear Bran and Sam to secrecy. She wouldn’t have told anyone herself. She wanted the truth silenced forever.

The master of whisperers continued. “I still don’t know how her coin has landed, but I’m quite certain about yours.”

 _Sansa._ Jon quickly looked away, his mask faltering for a moment. She did tell, after all. She not only told, she put him forward as a challenger to Daenerys. Her belief in him filled him with courage. Hardening his face once more, he turned back to look him in the eye. “I don’t want it. I never have.”

Lord Varys heaved a frustrated sigh, shaking his head.

Jon realized his words were wasted.

“I have known more kings and queens than any man living. I’ve heard what they say to crowds and seen what they do in the shadows. I have furthered their designs, however horrible. But what I tell you now is true: you will rule wisely and well, while she…”

“She… is my queen.” He turned and walked away, determined not to be pulled into a treasonous conversation any further.

But then Lord Varys called out. “You’re as honorable as your true father.”

He spun around, glaring at the eunuch, his guts twisting into anxious knots.

“I have met very few men in my lifetime who were as honorable as Ned Stark, and when I remember what his honor had awarded him in the end it’s easy to understand why. As a Targaryen, being raised by that man was the best thing that could have been afforded you. And I admire your own personal honor, truly I do, as I’m sure your father would if he were alive. But his honor cost him dearly, and I pray you won’t meet the same end. We all have choices to make, and I hope you make the right ones.”

Jon gulped, eyes widening, an ominous feeling rising up inside him. Without another word, he turned back around and once again began walking towards the castle of black stone. Once inside, he sought out Daenerys but her Unsullied guards refused to allow him admittance to her chambers. She refused to see anyone, including him. That wasn’t a good sign, he thought nervously.

Dothraki men then escorted Jon to the prison cell masquerading as a bedchamber, the same one he’d occupied on his first visit to the island. After some time, the sun set outside his window. Lying on his featherbed, he strove to make some kind of sense out of the myriad of confusing thoughts and emotions swirling in his head. It was as if a storm raged inside him.

 _I must do my duty and support her rule,_ he told himself. _But it is your birthright and she is a usurper,_ another voice replied. _I have never wanted a crown or a throne,_ he contested. _But you would serve the realm and protect the people, while the dragon queen fights for the thralls of conquest,_ the voice answered. _I pledged myself to her cause and I am her nephew—I am bound by blood and honor,_ he countered. _You are a Stark_ , the voice insisted, _and the North remembers, but have you forgotten?_

There was no one he could trust and confide in, no one he could speak to and unburden himself. He was surrounded by enemies, and so he was forced to keep silent counsel within his own mind. If only Sansa had been there with him. Perhaps in a way she was. The voice inside his head sounded a lot like hers, but it was no substitute for the real thing.

She dominated his feelings as well. He remembered the shape of her body underneath the sheer silk, the smell of her long red hair, and her eyes so blue he could drown in them. He remembered the feel of her arms around him holding him tight, the warmth of her pressed against his chest, and the look on her face when he told her he couldn’t stay. He’d wanted so badly to stay. He may never see her again. If only he could’ve taken her into his arms and kissed her. He wanted to lay her down and have her moan beneath him. He loved her voice and missed hearing it, but more than anything he wanted to hear her sounds of pleasure. Hear her scream his name. He wanted to lose control. Just once. _It is wrong to love your sister,_ a voice whispered, shaming him. _She’s not your sister anymore and she never was_ , another voice insisted.

A knock at the door interrupted his agonizing thoughts. Before he could answer, Grey Worm stepped inside his chamber. Jon sat up and stared at the commander of the queen’s forces.

“Queen Daenerys has summoned you down to the beach.”

He glanced at the window; it was black as pitch outside. What could be happening on the beach at this time of night?

Grey Worm frowned. “The queen does not like to wait.”

Sighing, Jon moved from the bed and followed the commander out of the room, a knot of fear tightening in his gut.

*****

Sansa watched as a garrison of Vale knights marched out of the main gates. They were finally on the move. The Manderly army was going to meet them at Moat Cailin—a force consisting of fifteen hundred men, including two hundred mounted lances and swordsmen—and then accompany the van to King’s Landing. Lord Wyman was sending his twenty best highborn knights along with their squires to make up her personal battle guard through the Neck and beyond. They were going to war. Robin Arryn, Edmure Tully, and Gendry Baratheon had all raised their banners as well as the noble houses of the Reach, but she’d heard nothing from Dorne. She had supposed House Martell would be the most conflicted, but hopefully her promise of independence would ultimately be the deciding factor.

A flurry of emotions was blowing through her heart: fear, excitement, doubt, determination. She turned to see Bran approaching her, accompanied by a servant. “I could be of use to you down south,” he stated.

She hesitated. “It is too dangerous, little brother. Our fighting men will have enough to contend with once we’re south of the Neck without having to ensure your safety as well.”

He stared up at her impassively. “A cripple would be an inconvenience.”

“Bran,” she sighed. She wished things were different. She wished he’d never fallen from that tower. She wished he’d never had to go north of the Wall and become… whatever this was. Yet even if things were different, their present situation would remain the same. “I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to come with us. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. We can’t just abandon our home. You’ll be needed here to act as lord in my stead.”

He made no reply, giving up further protest.

She gave him a kind smile. “And Arya? Have you seen her lately?”

“She is still on the kingsroad, just passing through Brindlewood. She will be at the walls of King’s Landing in two days.”

 _She’s already made it to the Crownlands,_ Sansa thought. “And is the Hound still with her?”

Bran nodded. “Yes.”

“Will she really be able to reach Cersei in time before Daenerys can attack the city?” she inquired doubtfully.

Her brother hesitated for a moment before answering. “Nothing will prevent Daenerys from attacking the city.”

Sansa stared, her brows knitting in confusion. “But once Cersei is dead, there will be no reason to attack King’s Landing. Daenerys can just claim the throne. She won’t need to…”

“ _Nothing_ will prevent her from attacking the city.”

“But you told Arya she should go when she asked you,” she replied in an accusatory tone. “Why tell her that if her mission is a fruitless one?”

Bran lowered his eyes from her and looked away. “I told her she should go to King’s Landing because that’s where she needs to be.”

She stared down at him, a knot of fear tightening in the pit of her stomach. “Why?”

“A Targaryen all alone in the world is a terrible thing,” he answered, still staring into the near distance.

“Is this about Jon?” she asked in small panicky voice. She felt as if her heart was in her throat.

He then returned his gaze to meet hers. “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said, using their father’s words. “Arya is going to be where she is most wanted, as are you.”

Sansa leaned down and hugged him tight. “I have to go now, Bran. Jon needs me.”

He nodded as she pulled away and looked up at her. “Yes. He does.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story becomes canon divergent from here.

Jon watched the queen and her soldiers walk away, heading back to the castle. He turned to look at Tyrion, who was gazing into the dwindling flames where Varys had once stood just moments before. It all seemed like a waking nightmare to him, everything since he first met Daenerys, a terrible dream of fire and blood and grief, but he had the pain in his heart to remind him that it was real.

“I thought he was your friend,” he said with a sad grimace.

“I am loyal to my queen,” replied Tyrion, who then sighed. “What happened to Varys was sad, but necessary.”

He eyed the dwarf, frowning. “And you and Varys learned the truth, how?” Jon was almost certain of the answer, but he wanted to hear him say it.

Tyrion hesitated for a moment, and appeared to be uneasy. “Sansa told me.”

“And you told the queen this information came from Sansa?” he asked, flexing his sword hand.

“As her Hand, it is my duty to protect her from any threats to her rule,” he went on loyally. “The truth and those who spread it are a threat to her. If your sister knows what’s best for her and you and the realm, she’ll support the queen as well.”

Jon’s face hardened and his sword hand curled into a tight fist. The danger Tyrion had put Sansa in—he felt rage flood his gut like molten gold. There were times since they first met when he'd felt that Tyrion Lannister was probably the closest thing to a friend he had down there in the south, but more and more he felt as though he just might be his worst enemy. He stood glowering at him for a moment, but then he walked away without another word.

Once back inside the castle, he made his way through the labyrinth of black stone hallways, dimly lit with torches in their dragon claw sconces. There was dragon architecture everywhere, such as small dragons framing gates and dragon tails forming staircases and archways. Doors were set in the mouths of stone dragons, and a great pair of black wings covered the armory. Not just dragons adorned the castle’s design, but all manner of evil creatures. On the battlements, instead of merlons in the crenellations, there were grotesques and gargoyles, basilisks, griffins, hellhounds, manticores, and minotaurs brooding from above.

It was a grim place, and only fanned the flames of Jon’s hopelessness and despair. Once he reached the top of the Stone Drum, the massive tower and central keep of the castle, he came to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Daenerys was sitting in front of a fire blazing in the stone hearth. The sight of her sitting there caused his own misery to intensify. The thought of spending the rest of his life in her company filled him with dread. Upon his entrance, Grey Worm turned to face him, blocking him from the queen, but then she spoke in a language he didn’t understand and the commander left the chamber.

Jon then approached her, before coming to a halt at a respectful distance, holding his hands behind his back. He was unsure of her state of mind and hoped whatever anger she may be feeling towards Sansa could be lessened. He waited for her to speak first.

“What did I say would happen if you told your sister?” she asked.

“I don’t want it,” he replied, trying to keep the frustration he felt out of his voice. “And that’s what I told him.” He stared into the fireplace, unable to look at her.

Her voice was thick with emotion when she spoke. “She betrayed your trust. She killed Varys as much as I did. This is victory for her. Now she knows what happens when people hear the truth about you.”

Jon groaned internally. _This is what happens when people learn the truth about me,_ he told himself. _She kills them._ Her words made him sick, the implication regarding Sansa most of all.

“Far more people in Westeros love you than love me,” she continued. “I don’t have love here. I only have fear.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have crossed the Narrow Sea with two armies and three dragons, he thought bitterly. Her line of thinking wasn’t going to lead anywhere good. Neither were her disparaging remarks about Sansa; she was growing more and more fixated. He averted his eyes from the fire and looked at her. “I love you,” he lied, saying the words for the first time, before his steady gaze faltered again. He couldn’t avoid saying the words now, as he could no longer use physical affection to mask the truth.          

“And you will always be my queen.”

He watched her stand up from her chair and move closer to him, her face instantly softening as she gazed at him. “Is that all I am to you?” she asked suggestively. She came closer, her face inches from his. “Your queen?” she whispered, their lips almost touching.

And then she was kissing him again, reaching for his shoulders and pulling him against her. It only served as a reminder that he could no longer reciprocate. He’d tried before, to keep her appeased and calm her worries, but it was no good. The more she showed her true colors, the less he was capable of keeping up the facade. He just couldn’t do it anymore. His body wouldn’t respond to her. Keeping his arms behind his back, he gripped his wrist with his sword hand and squeezed as hard as he could. It was all he could do not to retch.

The queen broke the kiss and pulled back to look at him. She stared until he finally looked her in the face. Her expression was hard, angry. Her love for him had kept him safe from her wrath—had been able to momentarily lessen her paranoia and relieve her fears about his claim whenever they arose. He now wondered just how much longer he could depend on that.

“All right, then,” she whispered, before backing away and allowing distance between them once more. “Let it be fear.”

Jon swallowed, his eyes widening. He tried to calm his breathing, and to quell the fear rising inside him.

“Do not give up on love, my queen.”

The words were spoken by a soft, honeyed voice he had never heard before. Turning around, he watched as a woman walked towards them—young, slender and graceful, full-breasted, and stunningly beautiful, with a heart-shaped face, long mahogany hair, and bright green eyes. She wore red from head to toe, a long flowing gown of bloodred fabric cut low enough into the shape of a V to expose the tops of her breasts. Swirls of tiny rubies brightened her bodice and the ends of her wide sleeves. Around her throat was a gold choker, ornamented with a single great ruby. Her skin was smooth, unblemished, delicate as porcelain. Jon could see that the woman’s beauty would easily turn every man’s head who laid eyes on her, but all he saw was another Melisandre: a priestess, red and terrible.

“Love of the people,” the red woman continued as she drew closer, before coming to a stop at his side. She turned her gaze on him, and their eyes met and held. “Any manner of love your heart desires. All that you want you will have, Your Grace.”

Their eyes held for another moment. Jon didn’t like the way she looked at him, as if she could see right into his soul, as if she knew things about himself that he did not. He then watched her move away and step towards Daenerys. He only now noticed the red woman held a cup in her hand, which she handed to the queen. “Nantosuelta nectar,” she spoke softly. “You must drink morning, noon, and night, my queen.”

Daenerys silently accepted the offering and drank down the liquid. She then handed the empty cup back to the red woman, stared at him for a moment, before turning and gazing into the fire crackling in the stone hearth. “You’re dismissed,” she commanded, keeping her back to him.

Jon bowed his head and then turned away, feeling the red woman’s eyes on him as he walked out of the chamber. Five days passed without his seeing the queen, and he was growing increasingly anxious. He wanted to see her, to try and reason with her. She remained shut inside her private apartments, only allowing admittance to Grey Worm, Tyrion, and the red woman. Five Unsullied guards stood outside her doors at all hours. There was no getting to her. In about a week, the northern army would reach the walls of King’s Landing and he would leave the island to join them at the siege. With a sinking feeling, he realized a battle would be an improvement to his current state.

When the sun began to set, a Dothraki servant girl entered his bedchamber to make a fire in the hearth and light the many candles around the room. The girl came and went without speaking a word to him. Soon after, she reentered the room to bring him a platter of food and a flagon of wine. He wouldn’t put it past the queen and her red woman to poison him at this point, and so he abstained.

Then came a knock at his door. He stood from his chair and made to step over to answer it, but the door opened before he could reach it. In stepped a man with greying dark hair in bloodred robes, the design and shape of the red woman’s gold choker embroidered into the fabric with golden thread. As the man entered the room, Jon could see her walking in after him.

“You are in the presence of Kinvara,” the red priest announced. “High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, the First Servant of the Lord of Light.” He then turned and walked out of the bedchamber, closing the door as he left.

Nervously, Jon glanced at the wall beside his featherbed, where Longclaw rested.

The red priestess smiled. “You have nothing to fear from me, not if you’re a true friend of the queen.”

“Why are you here?” he wondered aloud, flexing his sword hand.

“I am here because the queen needs my help,” she answered. “She has suffered many losses, and the Lord of Light has willed me to come to her aid.”

Jon sighed, clenching his jaw. “Why are you _here,_ in my room?”

Kinvara’s smile turned into a smirk. “You can help the queen as well.”

She sauntered towards him, and he again glanced at his sword. She moved closer until her face was inches away, her eyes watching him. His guts knotted in fear as his heart hammered beneath his ribs. He could see the way her dark eyelashes tangled in the corners, and how strangely bright the green rings were around her pupils.

She brought her hand to his chest, setting her palm down over his heart. He couldn’t tear his eyes from hers. “You have such power, Aegon. The Lord of Light saw this in you, and He is why you stand here. You are alive for a reason. If not for your resurrection by one of the Lord’s faithful servants, you would not be here. You are where you are for a reason, and you are who you are for a reason. If only you would stop resisting and accept your destiny. It is the Lord’s will for you to help his chosen one.”

Jon exhaled the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. No one had ever called him by that name, and the way she spoke turned his stomach. He wanted to run from the room, but he couldn’t move his feet.

“There is power in king’s blood.” The priestess lowered her hand, fingertips sliding down from his chest and over his stomach. Moving lower, opening her palm, she grasped hold of his member through his woolen breeches. “There is power in king’s seed.”

He cursed and stepped back, putting distance between them. Again, he glanced at Longclaw. “Whatever you want, I can’t give it you. I won’t.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to keep his mask firmly in place. “I love another, and I am loyal only to her.”

The red woman smirked again and turned to stare at the fire in the hearth. “I would say your loyalty to the queen is admirable, but we both know she is not the one of whom you speak.”

Jon’s eyes widened, and he swallowed a rising sense of dread. How did she know? And if she knew, then did the queen? If not, then she would know soon enough.

“I did not come here to lay with you, so you need not worry on that account.” She didn’t turn her gaze away from the flames. “Daenerys Targaryen is the princess that was promised. From the fire she was reborn to remake the world, and her dragons were fire made flesh—a gift from the Lord of Light. Sadly, all but one has perished, but she needs just the one. She freed the slaves of Essos from their chains and crucified their masters. She defeated the Great Walker, that demon of ice, and saved the world from a cold darkness. The Lord of Light has willed the divine restoration of House Targaryen, and the progeny of Daenerys Stormborn will create a pure dynasty that will last for a thousand years.”

He gazed at her profile, saw the flames flickering in her eyes. This was madness. “The queen can’t have children. She will have no progeny.”

Kinvara finally tore her gaze from the fire and looked at him. “Do you think a Lhazareen maegi is any match for the High Priestess of Volantis, the Lord of Light’s First Servant?”

He gulped, a sickening feeling flooding his gut.

“The dragon will purify the nonbelievers of Westeros by the thousands, burning their sins and flesh away,” the red woman continued. “Death will pay for life.”

Jon stepped back, astonished, horrified at her words. The blood rushed hot to his face. The Lord of Light was evil. This priestess was evil. And if she was whispering this dangerous nonsense into the queen’s ear… He watched Kinvara walk towards his chamber door without another word and disappear behind it, a storm of anger and fear whirling within him.

*****

Arya rode the white horse out of King’s Landing and made for the northern army’s camp, currently blocking the kingsroad. When she reached the camp, she could see the pillars of smoke rising from the city skyline. She made for the commander’s tent, the largest, with Jon’s banner—a white direwolf against a grey field—dancing in the breeze atop the center pole, but her brother was not there. Inside the tent were a small group of lords bannermen standing around a table looking over a map of the capital. They were all young—none of them more than thirty years of age. They were younger sons, bastard sons legitimized to save the family line, and cousins who’d inherited their lordship after the heirs of the House met their demise.

“He’s alive, milady,” Lord Kyle Cerwyn reassured her kindly. “We left him with Ser Davos and a garrison outside the Mud Gate. They’re helping survivors.” The man sighed, his expression one of weariness. “What little there were.”

She swallowed against the lump forming at the back of her throat, and she nodded silently. She’d failed. She hadn’t reached the queen in time, and the city had burned. But she’d heard the bells, and now realized nothing could have prevented the massacre, not even Cersei’s death. Only the dragon queen’s death could’ve prevented it. She’d gone after the wrong queen. And now what were they to do? She had hoped that with Cersei gone, the realm would be a safer place for Sansa and Bran and Jon, and she would be able to pursue her heart’s desire without worrying about what could happen to them while she was gone. But a worse enemy had risen in Cersei’s place, even more dangerous to Jon and Sansa. She couldn’t leave now—not yet.

A boy no older than sixteen entered the tent with a raven’s scroll. He bore the House Dustin sigil on his breast. “For the commander,” he said, holding it out to the group.

Arya stepped towards him first and took it from his hand, before the boy left the tent. The scroll was sealed with white wax in the shape of a direwolf. _Sansa._ She hurriedly broke it open, smoothed out the paper, and read. Concern gave way to disbelief, then to excitement. “A host has amassed in the Riverlands,” she told the lords. “A northern army, along with the knights of the Vale and House Tully’s forces. Another is gathering in the south where the roseroad meets the kingsroad. They’ll be at the city walls in two days.”

“To the south?” Lord Hornwood—formerly Larence Snow—questioned, his brows furrowing.

“A host from the Stormlands and the Reach,” she answered. _Gendry._ Gendry was coming to fight for her brother. Hot tears pricked her eyes.

Ser Brandon Tallhart stared at her in confusion. “But why? The war is over.”

Smiling, Arya held up the scroll. “I guess it’s not a secret anymore. Jon Snow is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. He’s the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. The dragon queen is a usurper.”

The eyes of the lords bannermen went wide. Lord Rickon Ryswell stepped forward and took the paper from her, reading it for himself. Timotty Flint, the young Lord of Flint’s Finger, looked skeptical. “But Jon Snow supports Daenerys as queen, my lady. Would he really move against her?”

She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. “I know it seems that way from the outside, but I promise you it’s not true. My brother bent the knee because he had no other choice if we were to survive. But Daenerys is too great a threat to the people to allow her to rule. She proved today she’s her father’s daughter. Jon won’t support her now. I know he won’t.”

The young lords nodded. “The Mad King’s daughter can’t be allowed to rule. What’s to stop her from doing to us what she did to King’s Landing?”

“Spread the word through the camp,” she told them. “The host in the Riverlands is coming down the kingsroad and will be here in three days. My sister is with them. Winter is coming for Daenerys Targaryen. The North remembers.”

Arya then rushed out of the tent. She was soon riding back towards the burning city, hurrying to reach her brother.

*****

Jon walked across the ash-covered ground. _Let it be fear._ Smoke hung heavy in the air, and in some spots the city was still burning. The horrifying scenes from earlier in the day had run in circles in his mind, plaguing him without relief. He now felt numb, hollow. He soon entered the square in front of the giant stair of red stone that led up to the crumbling Red Keep. A large Targaryen banner hung from a ruined parapet at the top of the stair. _Let it be fear._ The Dothraki and Unsullied were gathering, awaiting their victorious queen. She was everyone’s queen now, he thought bitterly, the numbness giving way to a growing sickness in his gut. _Let it be fear._ There was no longer any question in his mind; he knew Daenerys had to be removed. But how to do it without reprisals? Without throwing the North into yet another war? Without the dragon queen’s forces going north to Winterfell to avenge her? _Let it be fear._

As he neared the stone stair, Drogon flew overhead and the men cried out, cheering for their queen. He began to climb; the higher he went, the heavier each step became. When he finally reached the top of the stair, joining Grey Worm, Daenerys had dismounted her dragon and was walking forward to address her armies and officially declare her victory. She walked right by him without even a glance in his direction, Tyrion walking up behind her and coming to a stop at his side. Jon stood back and listened as she began to call out to her men in a language he didn’t understand. He was almost grateful for his ignorance.

She continued to give her speech, Drogon landing on a ruined parapet in the broken curtain wall and screeching. Jon’s own thoughts drowned out her words. Was this what it meant to be Targaryen? To bask in the legacy of their House? This wasn’t him. This would never be him. He wanted no part of it. This was the House that had murdered his grandfather and uncle, that had taken his mother, a young girl of only fifteen, and hid her inside a tower far away from her family, where she bled to death on her birthing bed. He was no true Stark, had never been one, but he could live like one. He could fight like one and die like one. Let them always say that Ned Stark had been his true father—his only father.

The Valyrian word for “Winterfell” broke Jon’s reverie, and a piercing dread rose up inside him. Daenerys finished her speech moments later. The Unsullied were pounding their spears. The Dothraki were screaming, their horses rearing. Her speech had been a war cry, he realized. What they had done to King’s Landing was only the beginning. His sword hand curled into a fist behind his back. He wondered how fast he could reach her, whether he could make it in time before Grey Worm or the other Unsullied guards could stop him. He concluded it would be a fruitless attempt, and one his family would suffer the consequences of.

Tyrion then stepped away from him and approached the queen. They exchanged some words. Daenerys accused him of treason for freeing Jaime from captivity, which he didn’t deny and said his brother deserved to die at his sister’s side. She angrily ripped the Hand of the Queen pin from his tunic, and then spoke to her guards. Two Unsullied then apprehended him. Jon watched as they walked past him, heading for the castle, Tyrion giving him a hard look as he passed. He turned back to see the queen staring at him, her face hard and proud, as if challenging him to betray her too. Sansa had warned him to be smarter. He had to be careful and bide his time, wait for the perfect moment. So, he said nothing.

Jon then watched her walk away, following after Tyrion, Grey Worm and the remaining guards going with her. He knew she had been ambitious for power, unyielding with her rightness, convinced of her greatness, impulsive, and prone to violent outbursts, but he had never thought her capable of such widespread, indiscriminate cruelty and destruction. Now he saw what she truly was. She had become the very thing she claimed it was her destiny to fight against. She was a tyrant, and an abuser, and he despised her for it.

He turned and descended the red stair, wanting to check on his men outside the city, planning on telling them to break camp and make for home. If things went badly here, the northern army would be needed in Winterfell. When he reached the Dragon Gate that led to the kingsroad, his eyes widened as he saw his little sister walking towards him. She was dirty and bloodstained. His heart lurched and he moved quickly to meet her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, not understanding why she would even be in the capital, gently grasping her shoulder. “What happened?”

“I came to kill Cersei,” Arya confessed. “The dragon queen got there first.”

Jon sighed. The thought of his sister in the city as Daenerys had rained dragonfire down from above made him heartsick. “It’s over now.”

Arya shook her head. “It’ll never be over as long as she’s alive. You heard her speech. What she did to King’s Landing, she’s going to do everywhere.”

He wasn’t as fluent in Valyrian as much as his sister was, but he’d understood enough to get the gist. “I know. The northern army will be returning home soon. I want you to be with them when they leave.”

She eyed him. “And what about you?”

“I have to stay here and serve the queen until she relieves me from my duty,” he said with a gloomy sigh. He hoped not for long. He was just biding his time.

“Try telling Sansa that,” Arya replied wryly. “She’ll be here in three days.”

He blinked, taken aback. Her words instantly tied his stomach in knots. “What do you mean?”

She grinned slightly. “Sansa is on the kingsroad with twenty thousand men who have pledged to win you back your birthright from Daenerys. She’s also called on Storm’s End and the Reach to do the same. Another twenty thousand or so are approaching the city from the south.”

Jon stared, agape. “Why would she do that?”

She arched her brows and pursed her lips. “Because she loves you, stupid.” Arya shook her head. “You’ll always be a threat to the dragon queen, which probably means you won’t live long. Look at what she did to the city. She’s a killer. She’ll kill anyone in her way. She’ll kill you, too, eventually. Sansa’s not going to just sit back in Winterfell and let that happen. And neither will I. The lone wolf dies, but _the pack_ survives.”

Their father’s words. He wanted to weep. He pulled his sister into a hug, holding her tight and kissing her temple. He then stepped back and sighed. The fear still felt like a stone weight in his gut. “The next time I’m alone with her, the deed will be done.”

“You need to stay alive until the armies get here,” she stressed.

Shaking his head, he turned and stared towards the Red Keep. “This is what her dragon did to an entire city—one million people. The dragon could easily do the same to any army marching against her. She needs to be removed before she finds out what Sansa has done.”

Arya frowned. “Don’t worry about the dragon right now. Let me worry about it. Sansa is coming to save you. So, concentrate on staying alive for three more days. Kill the queen, if you have to. Or keep her happy, if you have to. Just be smart about it.”

He averted his gaze from the ruined city and looked down at her. _Let it be fear._ He wasn’t sure keeping the queen happy was possible now. “I’ll try.” He at least made an effort to sound reassuring. “Where are you going to be?”

“I’ll be around,” she replied vaguely. “I have to go back to camp to let them know I’ve spoken to you, but I will be back.” Arya stepped forward and put her arms around him, and he held her tight. “I’ll never be far off from you,” she murmured, pulling out of the hug. “If you’re in trouble, I will be there. I promise.”

Jon then watched her turn and run back through the Dragon Gate. Later, he made his way to the room where they were keeping Tyrion. The Unsullied guard unlocked the door and let him inside, before closing it behind him. The small man was sitting on the dusty floor beneath the window. “Did you bring any wine?” he asked miserably.

“No.”

“Well, thank you for coming to see me,” Tyrion replied. “Our queen doesn’t keep prisoners for long. I suppose there’s a crude kind of justice. I betrayed my closest friend and watched him burn. And now I’ve betrayed the queen as well. Varys’s ashes can tell my ashes, ‘See? I told you.’”

He sighed. “You only tried to save your family.”

Tyrion frowned. “My father was an evil man. My sister was an evil woman. Still, I chose her over my queen, her and my brother. And I’ll burn for it.” He paused and gave a shrug. “I chose my fate.”

“Unlike the people of King’s Landing,” Jon said in a grieved tone.

“Ungrateful wretches and fickle cunts,” the former Hand of the Queen grumbled. “I saved this city before, you know? And how did they repay me? By believing me a monster and cheering for my humiliation.”

He gave the small man a pointed look, his brows furrowing. “Are you saying they deserved it? They deserved to be burnt to a crisp, raped, and butchered?”

Tyrion pursed his lips. “Well, when you put it like that it sounds dreadful,” he quipped. “Cersei gave her little choice.”

“They rang the bells,” Jon snapped. “The city had surrendered.”

“And yet I had told our queen when we arrived in Westeros that if anyone touched her, King’s Landing would burn to its foundation stones. Cersei had her dragon shot down from the sky. She beheaded her trusted friend and adviser in front of her eyes. She was within her rights.”

 _Rights,_ Jon scoffed inwardly as he sat down in a wooden chair. _She doesn’t even have the right to the Iron Throne._ “She’s not finished. The war isn’t over. She’s going to bring fire and blood to all of Westeros. And what have they done to deserve it?”

Heaving a sigh, Tyrion got up from the floor and walked over to him. “She believes she was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

He shook his head. “Except she wasn’t, was she?”

The small man gulped, momentarily averting his eyes from his. “She walked into the fire and walked out with three dragons. She believes it’s her destiny to change the world. She already has, to a large extent. She freed the slaves in Essos and crucified their masters and burned down the Dothraki khals. And now she’s here, breaking the wheel.”

“House Targaryen _is_ the wheel,” he retorted. “Aegon the Conqueror built it.”

“And Daenerys is Aegon the Conqueror with teats,” snarked Tyrion in return. “Who can stop her? Best to go along or you’ll end up a pile of ash, as I soon will. The queen isn’t so merciful these days.” He then gave him a look of thinly veiled contempt. “Of course, you’ll go along. You’ll get to stand by her side and celebrate every victory. She’ll gaze at you in adoration every morning and fuck you every night. I’ve been by her side for years, counseling her, and what do I get for it? A pile of ash. And you get to warm her bed.”

He stared at him, brows furrowing in confusion.

Tyrion stepped closer. “I know you love her, and she loves you. The thing is… I loved her, too. Not as successfully as you, of course. But I did. And how could she look at me when Jon Snow was around? The King in the North. The war hero. A walking miracle. A man of honor who always does his duty and loyally serves his queen. They’ll write songs about your love that will make the people weep.”

Jon heard the bitterness in his voice. “Yes, it’s my duty to serve the queen. I did make that pledge and the honorable thing to do would be to live up to it. But love is the death of duty, and the bane of honor.” He sighed and stood up from the chair. “You tried to save your family from the queen, and now my family is trying to save me. If they succeed, then perhaps neither of us will end up a pile of ash.”

Turning from him, Jon walked over to the door and left, Tyrion staring after him.

*****

The northern host had stopped for the night. Three great feast tents had been put up to feed everyone and provide shelter from the cold. They were making camp along the kingsroad just south of the small village of Brindlewood in the Crownlands. They would reach the walls of King’s Landing in two days, by Lord Royce’s estimate. Sansa was glad of it. She was weary of riding, long waking hours spent on horseback, and weary of worrying about the unknown, about what might await her in the capital.

It was pleasantly warm inside her tented pavilion, heat emanating from the burning coals in a dozen small iron braziers. Outside her tent, she could hear the sound of men approaching. Sansa heard Edmure Tully complaining of a stiff neck, Yohn Royce complimenting Robin Arryn on the improvement in his riding. They were good men, loyal to House Stark, and she was forever grateful they had come to her aid when called upon. But she was weary of them too, and wished they would leave her be. It was Jon’s company she wanted—craved, yearned for.

The door of her tent then flung open, and she sighed. Lord Royce gave her a bow of his head before speaking. “Lady Stark, we have heard back from the northern army in the capital. They are now expecting us. The king is alive and well, as are most of the northmen with him. Your sister, Arya, has been accounted for as well.”

“Thank the gods,” she replied, sighing in relief, pleased at this news. Yet there was a troubled look on his face. “What is it?”

“Daenerys Targaryen burned the city to the ground with her dragon,” he lamented. “After the city had surrendered. The bells rung, Queen Cersei giving up without much of a fight. Daenerys attacked with her dragon, anyway, and her armies sacked the city. The capital is decimated.”

Sansa stared at him, horrified at his words, tears filling her eyes. Yet she wasn’t shocked. The dragon queen had been all too eager to attack the city, and had only begrudgingly agreed to a siege. She wanted fire and blood. It was no surprise she had done this. But all those innocent people… the people Daenerys had claimed to be saving from a tyrant. What a bitter irony.

Bronze Yohn frowned. “The Red Keep is a crumbling ruin. Cersei died within, and Ser Jaime was found alongside her.”

She turned and her gaze found Brienne, standing off to the side. Their eyes met and held. The knight’s face crumpled in misery and she hurried out of the tent. Sansa gazed after her, brows knitting, a rush of sympathy welling up inside. She sat in pained silence for a moment, considering the atrocity. “Did our army participate in the sack?” she asked the men who remained.

Edmure stepped forward, handing her the scroll. “Yes, unfortunately. According to Lord Cerwyn here, King Jon ordered his men to stand down, but… in the chaos of battle…”

“That’s not battle—that’s a massacre.” Sansa felt sick.

“There’s a savage beast in every man,” spoke Lord Royce sagely. “And it stirs when you put a sword in his hand and send him off to war.”

She read the parchment for herself. Jon wasn’t a beast. He was brave and gentle and strong and good—inherently good—and honorable. He was as far from a beast as any man she’d ever met. Not even war could turn him into one. Sansa believed that with all her heart. Yet memories rose up within her, and she again saw him on his knees over Ramsay, beating him bloody with his fists. She knew that savage beating hadn’t been spurred by the battle itself, or even poor Rickon’s death. It wasn’t war that stirred the beast inside Jon—it was her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I added another chapter. I haven't really added anything more to the plot, but I decided to include some shameless smut and that will pretty much need its own chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Now, I'll always be right where you are_   
>  _No borders can keep us apart_   
>  _And on the other side, I'll meet you there_   
>  _So bury me and lock me in_   
>  _I'll find a way to rise again_   
>  _I'll break away and find you anywhere_   
>  _Oh, anywhere_
> 
> _Don't give up even when I'm gone_   
>  _Don't give up_
> 
> _From the grave I'll crawl_   
>  _Through pouring rain for you_   
>  _I would pay the cost to_   
>  _Be in your arms again_   
>  _The fire I would walk through_   
>  _For all the pain I caused you_   
>  _Oh, I would pay the cost to_   
>  _Be in your arms again_
> 
> _To be in your arms again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys deserved to go out as a full-blown Targaryen villain, instead of... whatever that was. I wanted her to reach some combination of Caligula-level tyranny and Commodus-level megalomania, with a distinctly Targaryen twist. What follows was definitely inspired by various media portrayals of those individuals.

They continued south on the kingsroad until almost nightfall. They stopped not far off from Stokeworth castle, but they were still more than half a day’s ride away from King’s Landing. Brienne had picked fifty good men with fifty swift horses and rode ahead to screen the kingsroad and scout the way. Behind Brienne’s scouts, Sansa’s host stretched several miles. The knights of the Vale led the van. She traveled in the main column, surrounded by her personal battle guard of twenty Manderly knights and their squires atop their warhorses, along with Yohn Royce, Robin Arryn, and Edmure Tully. The rest of the Manderly and Vale forces marched behind them. Next came the baggage train of food, fodder, and camp supplies guarded under Podrick Payne’s watchful eye. The Riverlands force made up the rearguard. There were no enemies behind them, but Sansa didn’t want to take any chances. The dragon queen could easily send Unsullied or Dothraki through the countryside and around to attack them at the rear.

The following morning, Sansa woke inside her own pavilion as the pale grey light of dawn began to stream through, grateful for a full night’s rest without interruption. She could hear the men stirring outside and starting to break camp. She felt tired and alone and weary; weary of traveling, weary of duty, weary of feeling heartsick. She yearned for Jon. She yearned for Winterfell. It was her duty to be strong for the men looking to her for leadership, to put on a brave face and conduct herself with nerves of steel. But she only felt like weeping. She wished Jon were there to comfort her. It wouldn’t matter to him if she shed tears, if she acted scared or foolish. He’d never think her weaker for it. One day soon, she told herself as she lay staring up at the tent ceiling, one day she would finally allow herself to break down and cry and forget about being strong.

But today could not be that day.

After dressing into a simple gown of dark grey lambswool, the door of her tent flung open and in walked Ser Brienne of Tarth. “My lady,” she said in formal greeting, giving a slight bow of her head.

Sansa was glad to see her and smiled. She gestured to the table adorned with a platter of hot bread with butter and honey, rashers of bacon, a half-wheel of white cheese, and a pot of mint tea. “Come sit and breakfast with me. You can give me your report while we eat. I’m sorry we’re to be off soon, and you haven't much time to rest, and after riding all night, too.”

“Nothing to worry about, my lady.” The knight then sat down at the table in the middle of the large tent and poured herself a cup of tea. “There is nothing on the kingsroad, or for ten miles to the east or west of it, between us and the northern army barricading the road just outside the capital.” She began pulling a scroll from a pocket inside her cloak.

“Did you make it all the way to their camp?” Sansa asked expectantly, her stomach fluttering.

“Yes,” Brienne said, giving her a half smile, and handed the scroll over to her.

She quickly broke the direwolf seal of white wax. To her surprise, there were two pieces of parchment. She smoothed out the first, and read.

> _Sansa,_
> 
> _The queen is growing more unsound by the day. I am going to try to see her tomorrow. She’s been too closely guarded for me to get near enough to act. But she will be in the throne room to discuss restoration for her coronation so she can finally sit on that monstrosity of a chair. Her Master of War will be away from the Red Keep forming a new City Watch at all the gates. Arya is here as well… somewhere. The plan is to do the deed, get out of the city as quickly as possible, and make for the northern camp where we will await your arrival. I hope our timing will be right. Once the deed is done, we'll likely have a battle on our hands with the queen's forces. This is the first time in my life where our side will actually have the numbers. I only hope we'll prevail. I don’t know what we’re to do about the dragon. Arya said not to worry about it. I’m trying not to. Knowing you’re out there, and that you’ll soon be here, gives me all the courage I could possibly hope for in these moments._
> 
> _Jon Snow ▪ King in the North ▪_

She stared at his signature and the reclamation of his title, feeling a rush of pride. She read the letter a second time. He was planning to kill Daenerys himself? A dangerous mission. Yet probably their best chance. No one else was likely to get close enough to her. It appeared as though her sister was going to help him in some way. It was imperative they reach the city as quickly as possible. They’d likely be needed to help Jon and Arya get out of the city. Her heart in her throat, hoping for their victory and success, she set the piece of parchment on the table and began to read the second letter. 

> _I must write quickly. It is almost nightfall and Brienne is in a hurry to be off. Words can’t express exactly what I feel, knowing what you are doing for me… and knowing all that you have done for me ever since you came to Castle Black. I hope and pray we will see each other again. But in case we don’t, I write. I’ve been foolish, but never inconstant. In my mind, there are always those intelligent blue eyes looking at me, wishing me well, pushing me to be better than I am. Even though I am now enduring an almost self-inflicted torture for the choices I’ve made, nothing I have achieved, or hopefully will achieve, could have been accomplished without you. If you were not out there waiting, hoping, and believing in me, there wouldn’t have been someone to do any of this for. You alone are my reason for living and doing and being who I am. I am no true Stark by name, but I am by blood. And I will endeavor to live up to that honor, to be worthy of it and you._
> 
> _Loyally and affectionately yours,_
> 
> _Jon_

Reading his words, a hot flush crept up her neck and into her face—a burning, crimson flush—and she remembered his arms around her the night before he left, the warmth of his hands on her silk-covered body. She remembered further back, to before he had ever left for Dragonstone, and even further to Castle Black. She remembered soft gazes and tender looks, flustered reactions to even her slightest touch, and the way he would often avoid looking her in the eye. Sansa’s heart swelled, full to bursting. She knew the truth of it now, the whole truth. There was no denying it. He loved her as she loved him.

He hadn’t exactly said the words, though, and held back from an explicit declaration. Why? Did he not know that she felt the same? That she loved him the same? He didn’t, she realized. He didn’t know. Sansa read the message again. _I hope and pray we will see each other again. But in case we don’t, I write._ The danger he was in… things could go wrong in the capital, so very wrong. There was a very real chance they would be separated forever, that their goodbye in Winterfell had been their last. Hot tears began to fill her eyes.

“Lady Sansa…,” Brienne said tentatively. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head. “If Jon were to…” She choked on her tears. “Not knowing how much I really love him.”

Her sworn sword gave her a look of sympathy. “I know things are different now, my lady, but you were his sister for many years. He knows you care for him.”

“Brienne,” Sansa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t…” She wanted to confess the true nature of her feelings, that her love was not that of a sister, but she held back. Her tears welled up and brimmed over. “What would I do without him?”

“If the gods are good…,” the knight started to reply, but then trailed off and heaved a heavy sigh.

She looked up at her trusted friend, saw the pain and misery in her face. “I’m so sorry about Ser Jaime. I wish there was something more I could do to comfort you.”

Brienne gave her a sad smile. “Thank you, my lady. I wish there was something more I could have done for him, that I could have convinced him to stay in Winterfell. I wish that things could have turned out differently. But he died with his queen.” She sighed again. “The gods can be cruel.”

Swallowing against the lump in her throat and wiping away her tears, Sansa gazed down at the letter in her hand. Worrying thoughts now swirled inside her head of Jon and Daenerys and what would happen in the throne room. An hour later, her pavilion had been taken down and packed away on the baggage train. She was again sitting atop her gelding and riding south with the van.

At noon, they stopped to water the horses before the final stretch of road to King’s Landing. As she made her way back to the main column after relieving herself in a wooded area not far off from the road, she saw two Vale knights riding fast towards them. One of them quickly dismounted and handed a scroll over to Lord Royce. There was something alarming about it and she hurried over to them. Bronze Yohn walked to meet her. She took the message from him with a trembling hand. It was a roll of crisp white parchment sealed with a small blob of red wax. Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat. The seal was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

*****

Jon walked across the ash-covered city, heading for the Red Keep. When he reached the castle, Drogon emerged from a bed of ashes, a sentinel guarding the way inside. He rose up, looming over him. As he stared at the dragon, he realized he wasn’t afraid. Drogon peered at him for a moment and then quietly let him pass. He then made his way to the ruined Great Hall. When he reached the throne room, he found two Unsullied standing guard outside the great oaken doors, twenty feet tall and banded with bronze. The guards pushed open the doors, allowing him entrance. He eyed them as he passed, remembering he must wait for the right moment, wait for his sister’s signal. When inside the throne room, he again saw the ash that covered every surface, saw what once had no doubt been grand and cavernous was now broken and gaping.

He silently thanked the gods there were no Unsullied on this side of the doors. Daenerys Targaryen was pacing alone in front of the ancient seat, a hideous piece of iron made of grotesquely twisted swords. It looked hellishly uncomfortable. _A king should never sit easy,_ Aegon the Conqueror had said, when he commanded armorers to forge his throne from the swords his enemies had lain at his feet when they’d been forced to bend the knee. Jon inwardly cursed Aegon for his arrogance, and Daenerys too.

He kept moving closer, his heart in his throat, his guts twisting into knots. A long time ago, he’d wanted to prove everyone wrong for what they said about bastards, that their very nature was wanton and treacherous. He’d wanted to prove that he could be as good and true a son as Robb. He’d fucked that right up in the Night’s Watch. He’d been branded an oathbreaker, turncloak, murderer—all to his shame—and now he was going to add queenslayer and kinslayer to the list. _No man is as cursed as a kinslayer, in the eyes of both gods and men,_ they said. And yet what truly shamed him in this moment was that he had failed to act sooner, that nearly a million men, women, and children had died because he had been too weak and afraid. He had vowed to be the shield that guards the realms of men, and he’d failed them. He was glad that Ned Stark was not alive to see his dishonor.

With a feeling of anxiety amounting to dread, he came to a stop not far from her. Daenerys turned from the throne to look at him. She wore a gown of black satin and a dark red half cape fastened over one shoulder with a three-headed dragon pin. Jon felt uneasy as he watched the deep glow of her face, the restless wandering of her gaze as if she were looking for others to appear as well. Her face then lighted with a smile, but there was something ominous about it. _Let it be fear_

“I summoned you an hour ago,” the queen finally spoke.

“My apologies, Your Grace. I was attending to matters within the survivors’ camp outside the Mud Gate. Many are severely wounded and in need of help. I came as quickly as I could.”

Her face became hard, angry, yet controlled. “Yes. Well, you’re here now. Today is a joyous occasion and I wanted to share it with you.”

The feeling of uneasiness inside him grew as he saw Kinvara emerge from a darkened archway to the left of the throne. She approached them, her bloodred gown flowing behind her. “Praise R’hllor, the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, and the heat in our loins,” the priestess declared in her honeyed voice. There was an ominous smile upon her face as well. Jon’s breath hitched as she drew closer. Her eyes were two green stars, shining brightly. At her throat, her red jewel gleamed. “The queen’s moon blood has returned—a gift from the Lord of Light.”

Jon’s mouth went dry, and he swallowed. Both women were staring at him, awaiting his response. He was at a loss for words. The great oaken doors to the throne room then opened behind him, and he turned to see Tyrion Lannister enter. He stared agape, astonished, as the small man walked towards them, noticing the Hand of the Queen pin had once again been placed on his chest.

He watched as Tyrion walked past him without so much a glance in his direction, and approach the queen. “It’s done,” her Hand imparted quietly when he reached her side.

Daenerys nodded her acknowledgment before turning a hardening stare on Jon. “Why would you need your family to save you from me? The woman you _love?_ Or am I only your duty? _Who manipulated whom…?”_ Contempt dripped from her voice.

Guts twisting into knots, he looked at Tyrion, his gaze accusatory, condemning. The dwarf at least had the decency to look uncomfortable. Jon wanted to curse him to his face. He wanted to take him by the throat and throttle him.

“Sansa has spread the truth about you all over the realm,” the queen shouted venomously. “Armies numbering into the tens of thousands are approaching the city to win the throne _for you—_ to take away everything that is mine! I told you. I told you this would happen.”

“I don’t want that damned throne,” he replied, frustrated, a storm of anger and fear swirling inside him.

Her face pursed in anger. “I told you it doesn’t matter what _you_ want! _Sansa_ wants to take it for you!” She was breathing hard and fast. “So, what do you think I should do? Fly Drogon outside the city and burn her armies? Or should I burn you first? Maybe I should burn Sansa first and make you watch while she screams before I burn you after. What do you suggest?”

Jon was boiling with rage. He hated her—hated her more than he had ever hated anyone.

Kinvara stepped forward, her hands clasped together regally in front of her. “My queen, we have discussed this. All should go according to our plans. The son of Rhaegar is far more valuable to you alive. The role he plays in your destiny is a large one. There is a reason the Lord of Light has brought you together.”

A strange look came over the queen’s face, her anger seemingly fading into a calm coldness. “I am the master of my own destiny and I will take it with both hands.”

“The people hate you now, but you can earn their love,” the red woman asserted. “You can and you will. And the Lord of Light has shown you the best way how. It’s standing right here before you.”

“Let them hate me, so long as they fear me,” Daenerys snapped, before looking at Tyrion. “At my coronation, lords of the realm’s Great Houses and their heirs will come to the Red Keep to kneel before me and swear this vow: ‘I will fear no gods more than I do the queen. I will value neither my life nor the lives of my family more highly than I do the queen.’ Anyone refusing to do so will die.”

She gave Jon a pointed, hateful look. Struggling to keep his emotions in check, his jaw clenched, his sword hand curled into a tight fist. He wanted to strike her, but he knew he had to wait. _Gods save me, where is Arya?_

Daenerys smirked, her eyes cold and mean, and then took a deep, steadying breath as she gazed at Kinvara. “But yes. Our plans.” She turned back to her Hand. “Go to the Dragon Gate and wait there for Sansa. When she arrives, bring her here. Don’t fail me again. You told me she trusts you.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Tyrion replied, bowing his head. He then walked away, averting his gaze from them.

He stared, wide-eyed, fear beginning to overpower him. “Forgive Sansa,” he pleaded with her, the sound of the heavy doors opening and closing behind him. “Forgive them all. Make them see that they were wrong about you. Show them you’re one to be loved, not feared. Show them you’re a merciful queen.”

She gave him a look of scorn. “Should I be merciful?” she contemplated aloud, turning to gaze at the Iron Throne. “Daenerys the Merciful.” She turned back to him. “Yes, I will be merciful.”

Jon wanted to feel relieved, but all he felt was rising dread.

Daenerys glanced at Kinvara, who nodded, before addressing him again. “The future of my House depends upon my mercy. You will write to every noble in the realm, starting with the fools marching for you, and acknowledge who you are,” she commanded him. “You will tell them you are abandoning all ties and claims to House Stark. You are taking the name Aegon Targaryen, and you are abdicating the throne. You will tell them that I am the _rightful_ Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and they are to come to King’s Landing and bend the knee.”

 _I have a name,_ he wanted to say. _My name is Jon Snow, and I am the blood of Winterfell._ He held his tongue.

The queen took a deep breath. “Tyrion has already sent one such message to Sansa.”

“She won’t bend the knee,” he stated without hesitation. “She won’t even come to the city gates, let alone enter.” He knew she was smarter than that.

Daenerys glared at him coldly. “If she refuses to bend the knee, she will die. But she’s been told to come here and bend the knee in exchange for your life. I think you’ll find that she will. Women in love are _easily manipulated_. They do _stupid things_ for men.” She sneered, hatred pouring off her like a red-and-black fog.

 _Women in…?_ Jon pondered at her words, his brows furrowing in confusion. He scoffed inwardly, unable to understand the implications about Sansa and the way she felt about him. Why would the queen say such a thing? It was manipulation, that’s all it was. _But what if what she says is true,_ a small voice whispered inside him. He could scarcely allow himself to hope in such a moment, so he pushed the voice away.

“And after she bends the knee, if she wants me to allow you to keep living, then she is to stay here indefinitely... as my guest. If she tries to escape, she will die.”

He stared, unable to speak or move, a deep sense of terror sinking its claws into his heart. He hoped Sansa would stay away from the city, that she wouldn’t be coerced into coming for him, and that she wouldn’t be taken by force. Her safety and survival were of paramount importance.

“If you decide to do the honorable thing and take your own life, she will die,” the queen continued, her voice calm and threatening. “If Sansa so much as _looks_ at me in a way that displeases me, she will die.”

Tears filled Jon’s eyes, leaving them a blurred pool of anger and fear.

She stepped closer to him until he thought he could feel her breath. “And as for you,” she seethed, her voice becoming thick with emotion. “You will love me, just as I loved you. You will lay with me and give me pleasure whenever I demand. You will give me an heir of pure blood, so that we can launch a Targaryen dynasty that will last a thousand years.”

He stared at her in sick disbelief.

“Am I not merciful?” she asked, quietly menacing.

Daenerys moved closer, lifting her mouth to his. Filled with a cold rage, he turned his face away sharply to avoid her kiss. Her expression twisted into an angry grimace at his rejection. She reached up and gripped his face hard, pulling his head back towards her. “AM I NOT MERCIFUL?” she shouted.

Jon glared with a look of pure disdain, a sneer on his face.

Breathing hard and fast, trying to rein in her emotions, Daenerys walked back towards the Iron Throne. When she reached the steps in front of the monstrous chair, she turned to stare at him. “Kneel before me. Lay your sword at my feet. Swear me your service and undying love, and rise as Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.”

His heart hammering inside his chest, Jon moved towards her and unsheathed Longclaw. He held the sword out in front of him in both hands, before going one knee and laying it on the floor between them.

“Swear me your service and your undying love,” she said impatiently through gritted teeth.

Jon then suddenly heard the sound of a scuffle at the far end of the throne room, almost as if something or someone had struck the guards and they’d fallen back against the great oaken doors and down to the floor outside. _Arya._ His eyes went wide and a great burst of courage welled up inside him. The queen’s head snapped up at the sound and he saw her baffled look begin to change into one of alarm.

“Your Grace,” he said quickly and fervently, his voice husky with emotion, pulling her rapt attention back down to him. “I vow to love and serve only one woman, from this day until the end of my days.”

Jon looked up and saw triumph in her eyes. _The arrogance,_ he condemned. And then it all happened in a moment. There was a sound of the towering bronze doors opening behind him, drawing the queen’s gaze upwards. Pulling the knife from his belt, he quickly rose up and thrust the blade into her body with the full force of his hatred and indignation. “The North remembers,” he snarled.

Arya strode up the ash-covered aisle of the ruined throne room, her bow and arrow in hand. She remembered those fateful words of long ago. _I see a darkness in you, and in that darkness, eyes staring back at me—brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes—eyes you’ll shut forever._ But this wasn’t darkness. The red woman was darkness. The Lord of Light was darkness. Those eerily bright green eyes needed to be shut forever.  _There’s no justice in the world, not unless we make it,_  her sister had said. She halted, notching her arrow. She drew her bow. The arrow flew through the air and pierced the red priestess through the heart.

Daenerys gasped from the shock of sudden pain, her eyes wide at the betrayal, and then she slumped lifeless into his arms. Somewhere in his periphery Kinvara fell to the floor with a shout. Jon laid the dragon queen’s limp body to the floor. Daenerys was dead, she was dead, she was dead. But tears came to his eyes. Why, when he was finally relieved of his tormentor? Yet, inside a small voice condemned him, whispering, _Murderer, queenslayer, kinslayer._

Drogon, that large black beast, suddenly appeared, flying down from the great gaping ceiling. Jon quickly backed away from the queen’s body, finally laying eyes on his little sister. Relief flooded his insides. The dragon became riled and started to roar at them. Arya moved to stand in front of her brother. She drew her bow, notched two arrows, and certain of her aim, split them into the air together. The arrows struck Drogon in both eyes. Blinded, the dragon screeched, beating his great wings, his head snapping in all directions, his tail lashing. Haphazard fire flew from his open jaws, bright and hot, and Kinvara’s body was incinerated.

Jon’s panicked gaze fell on Longclaw, still on the floor near Daenerys. He made to move towards it, but Arya grasped his arm, holding him back. “There’s no time,” she stated anxiously. “They’ll all have heard the dragon’s roars by now. We need to get out of here.”

“My sword,” he replied, distressed. “I can’t leave it behind.” But as he turned back once more, the blinded Drogon spat swirling red-back flame in Longclaw’s direction, engulfing both the sword and the queen’s body and then the Iron Throne itself. He stared agape.

“Let’s go!” Arya pulled on him almost frantically. “Jon, Sansa is waiting.”

 _Sansa._ He turned away, bemoaning Longclaw. _No man is as cursed as the kinslayer._ They ran from the wild, floundering dragon and out of the throne room. He noticed the two Unsullied who’d been guarding the oaken doors, their bodies slumped over on the floor. Arya led him down through the castle, a labyrinth of darkened tunnels and crumbled stone. When they reached an outer door that led to the stony shore of Blackwater Bay, one of the Unsullied was hurriedly walking towards them, spear in hand. With just one look, it was obvious to Jon that they’d caught him by surprise. The plan had been to get out of the castle unseen. Acutely feeling the loss of his sword, his stomach twisted into anxious knots, but one swipe of Arya’s Valyrian steel dagger, and the guard was silenced forever.

*****

Sansa watched the messenger disappear through the tent door. She then paced about the commander’s tent in the North’s camp outside the city walls, gripping the scroll from Tyrion in her hand. Brienne stood sentinel behind her. The northern lords were standing about, waiting for her to speak. Lords Royce and Arryn were there along with her uncle Edmure. Gendry Baratheon had joined them as well as Ser Garth Hightower of Oldtown. Their combined forces were now starting to surround the walls of the decimated capital, in hopes of trapping the Unsullied and Dothraki inside. She prayed it was creating enough of a diversion for the queen’s forces to allow Jon and Arya to make it out of the city.

“Do you think Lannister will agree to the parley?” Edmure questioned.

“I don’t know,” she answered, frustration tinting her voice, thinking again of the scroll she’d received on the kingsroad from the Hand of the Queen.

The dragon queen wanted her to go to the Red Keep and bend the knee to save Jon, and promised to be merciful. _Just as Joffrey had been merciful, no doubt,_ she thought wryly. If Daenerys wanted a prisoner, she’d just have to come grab her from the middle of their camp. She trusted in Jon and Arya’s ability to deal with her from the inside. But she’d sent a reply to Tyrion’s message, asking him to come meet with her so that they could discuss terms, promising him safe passage to and from the city gate. He’d made some foolish decisions recently. She could only hope he’d make just one more.

The tent door then flung open, a Stark guardsman entering and giving a slight bow of his head. “Lady Sansa. An emissary from Dorne has just arrived and is requesting an audience with you.”

She stared. What sort of timing was this? After weeks of silence… “All right,” she sighed. “Send them in.”

A few moments later, a woman and two men entered the tent. Dressed in a fine silk gown of black and gold, the woman was very beautiful, with dark eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and black hair worn in a long braid bound up with gold ribbon. She spoke first, acting as a herald. “May I present the official delegation representing King Olyvar Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, Lord of Yronwood, and High King of Dorne.”

Her eyes went wide. It seemed her offer of independence in exchange for their support of Jon’s claim had been accepted. Sansa suppressed a smile, and turned her attention to the two men standing behind the herald. The younger of the two was introduced as Lord Greenhill. He appeared to be around forty years of age, had greying dark hair and beard, was adorned in a similar manner of dress to Oberyn Martell, and stood somewhat casually, as if he was bored to be there. The other was Benedict Blackmont, uncle to Lady Blackmont. He looked ten to fifteen years older than his companion, yet strong and fit, with a bald head, who dressed regally in expensive fabrics and gave off an air of importance.

“Welcome, my lords,” Sansa greeted. “We are grateful you traveled all this way. Please sit and have some refreshment.” She gestured to the commander’s table, where there were platters of bread, cheese, and fruit along with flagons of wine, and took a seat.

The men bowed their heads and sat themselves at the table across from her. “We did not know that Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter would be so beautiful,” Lord Blackmont complimented formally.

Lord Greenhill grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Yes. We’ll have to tell the king about your beauty. He’s currently weighing options for a marriage alliance.”

Sansa offered a tight smile. “I’m sure your liege will find much more tempting offers within Dorne. It will be important to unify and strengthen your kingdom after the recent turmoil. As for me, I have no interest in leaving Winterfell, not even to be a queen. Make sure you pass that along to your king as well.”

The younger lord gave her a half smile, nodding his head appreciatively. “You are very wise, my lady. I will let the king know that as well.” His eyes sparkled with amusement.

“I’m curious,” she tentatively began. “We sent our… offer… to Sunspear weeks ago, and heard nothing. I can honestly say we were expecting to hear from House Martell. I must admit my surprise at the arrival of an envoy from Yronwood.”

“The civil war left House Martell without any legitimate heirs,” Lord Benedict replied. “King Olyvar is a bastard, legitimized. He is the son of Prince Lewyn Martell, who was uncle to Prince Doran, Princess Elia, and Prince Oberyn. His mother was sister to Lord Edgar Yronwood. The king was born in Yronwood, raised there by his mother, and grew up among Lord Edgar’s children.”

“If the king is Prince Lewyn’s child, then why did he not take his father’s name?” Sansa asked.

Lord Greenhill frowned, running his fingers through his beard. “House Martell neither claimed him as one of their own nor recognized his existence. Prince Lewyn’s Kingsguard vow might have had something to do with it. He was never to father children. When the high lords and ladies of Dorne received your offer of independence, Olyvar was chosen and he was legitimized with the Yronwood name, his mother’s name.”

Lord Blackmont nodded. “House Yronwood and House Martell have always vied for power in Dorne, a rivalry going back centuries. The leadership of Dorne under House Martell became quite complicated in recent years. It led to much strife in our country. When the time came to choose new leadership, our people decided to go in a different direction. Because of King Olyvar’s blood ties to House Martell, it made the transition of power easier to swallow for some.”

“Tell us,” Lord Greenhill interjected. “Does your Jon Snow truly mean to sit on the Iron Throne once it’s been taken back from Daenerys?”

Sansa blinked, slightly taken aback at the abrupt change in conversation. “I… I honestly don’t know what he means to do. If he does choose to sit on the throne, he will have my loyal support. If he doesn’t choose to sit, he will have my support. The choice is up to him.”

Benedict pursed his lips. “And if he does sit on the throne, your loyal support means the North will submit to him?”

She swallowed, hesitating.

“We only ask these questions, my lady, because Dorne needs to know just how much trust we can put into your promise of independence,” Lord Greenhill explained. “If the North submits to King Jon’s rule—if the kingdom belonging to his own family will not have their independence—then we cannot expect any guarantees for Dorne.”

“Jon will never force the North to bend the knee to him,” Sansa replied with confidence, although a knot of worry began to tighten in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to dwell on a possible future where Jon ruled in the south a thousand miles away from her. “Nor anyone else, for that matter. I know in my heart he would grant independence to any kingdom that asked for it. I promise that Dorne will reclaim its freedom from the Iron Throne, upon my word and honor as the blood of Winterfell.”

Lord Benedict turned to look at Lord Greenhill, waiting for his reaction. The younger ran his fingers through his beard again, considering her words. Then he smiled. “Dorne will trust the daughter of Eddard Stark.”

Pleased, Sansa nodded. The Dornish envoy then left the commander’s tent. Upon their exit, she again turned her full attention to Jon and Arya. Every moment that passed was more worrisome. She wanted to lay her eyes on them, to know they were safe. She wanted to put her arms around them. King’s Landing sprawled across several miles and was defended by tall walls. If they were escaping on foot, she knew it would take some time to go from the Red Keep, around the city to the other side, and then reach the northern camp on the kingsroad.

She suddenly heard the sound of approaching voices outside. Her heart began to beat faster, fervently hoping it was her family returning to her. Then the doors of the tent flung open, and in walked Tyrion Lannister escorted by two guardsmen with the Stark direwolf on their chests.

“My lady,” he said in formal, polite greeting.

“My lord,” she replied stiffly. “It took you long enough.”

Tyrion offered a weak smile. “Entering the camp of the enemy is not a decision one makes hastily. I thank you for the safe passage into your camp, as promised. As you know, our queen has made her demands and I am here to discuss the terms of your surrender.”

Shaking her head, Sansa scoffed. “She’s not my queen.” She glowered at him. “So, I’m to bend the knee in exchange for Jon’s life.”

“That’s right,” the queen’s Hand replied, averting his eyes from her direct, burning gaze. The tension inside the commander’s tent became so thick one could cut it with a knife. The gathered lords glared at the dwarf, some gripping the hilt of their sheathed swords hanging from their belts.

“Are you saying Jon is your prisoner?” she asked, arching her brow, stepping closer. “You’ve taken the _rightful_ King of the Seven Kingdoms and are holding him hostage so that a usurper can sit on the throne? And I am to bend the knee, or the true king will be murdered? Do I have that right?”

Tyrion gulped, blanching, noticeably afraid. “Lady Sansa, I…” he stammered.

Her gaze was hard, accusatory. “Do I have that right?” she repeated; each word clearly enunciated.

“Well, it’s not exactly _wrong_ …,” he replied evasively.

Sansa gave him a look of pure disdain. “Seize him and clasp him in iron,” she commanded her men.

His eyes widened, and he made to turn away, but the guards took firm hold of him. He stared up at her, panicked and confused. “You promised me a true parley and a safe escort _back_ to the city!”

She smirked, a wry smile forming on her lips. “You shouldn’t have underestimated me. We both know what happens to those who underestimate me.”

Tyrion grimaced, seemingly unable to reply, and the guards began hauling him outside. Sansa smiled in victory as she watched him disappear, but it was fleeting. He was just like all the rest of the Lannisters, and she had been foolish to think otherwise. After some time passed, Podrick Payne entered the commander’s tent. “King Jon and Lady Arya!” he announced excitedly. “They’re alive, my lady. They’re heading this way.”

Sansa’s heart leapt for joy, relief surging through her. She began to walk towards the tent door, to go out and greet them, but Arya then burst inside. The sisters embraced happily; the eldest warm and affectionate, the younger enthusiastic and sincere. A coy smile began to spread across her face. “The queen is dead,” she whispered. “I’m guessing her men are putting the dragon down as we speak.”

She gazed at her little sister, eyes widening. “How? And why would they kill the dragon?”

“Jon killed her. And I blinded the dragon. It’s uncontrollable. They’ll have to put it down or it’ll probably roast them all.”

“I’m so glad you weren’t hurt,” Sansa shuddered. “I was so worried.”

“I’m all right,” Arya consoled. “Really.”

She hugged her sister again. “Jon?” she inquired, her heart in her throat.

Smile faltering, Arya sighed. “His men all crowded around him the moment he set foot in the camp. But don’t worry, he’s coming.”

“Is he all right?” Sansa asked.

She heard the worry and concern in her sister’s voice. “Erm…”

Just then the door flaps of the tent flung open and in he stepped. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and she nearly cried out of longing and joy. The lords inside bowed their heads, a scattering of “Your Graces” echoing around the tent. He nodded his acknowledgment, but he only had eyes for Sansa.

“Jon…” she spoke softly. Her eyes gazed over him; he looked broken and battered, weary and exhausted.

He was seized with emotion and found no word to answer her. His throat was tight, and he swallowed against the lump forming there. Instead of speaking, Jon moved towards her, ignoring everyone else in the tent. She stepped to meet him, embracing him, wrapping her arms around him. Sansa held him and pressed a kiss to his brow, sensing his grief and despair, aching for him.

With the feel of her arms around him, the emotion pent up inside him finally burst. He gripped her to him, his hands pressing her tight against him, and burying his face blindly into her shoulder, he began to weep. He wept for himself, for Longclaw, for his failures and mistakes, his broken vows and soiled honor. He wept for the women and children of King’s Landing he’d been unable to save. He wept for his mother, and all the years he had lived without her love. He wept for Ned Stark, for the sacrifices he’d made and the care he’d shown. He wept for Robb and Rickon. He wept for Winterfell. He wept for Ghost. He wept for Sansa, and for all the pain he’d caused her. He wept for loving her, for the days that passed without her, for the nights that he could never hold her in his arms.

Then Jon simply slid down, as if unable to keep holding himself up a moment longer, and Sansa knelt to the floor with him, kissing away his tears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter needed to be split into two because it was so long, and also it just flowed better as two separate chapters. The conclusion should be posted in a few days.

A small group of Dothraki and Unsullied walked out through the Dragon Gate to meet those gathered on the other side of the city walls. Jon stood waiting for them, accompanied by Sansa, Davos, Edmure Tully, and Yohn Royce. Several Stark guards and Vale knights were positioned at a close distance. Breaking away from the rest, Grey Worm stepped forward as the others came to a stop behind them. Jon did the same.

“Are you ready to surrender the city?” he questioned. “Or what’s left of it.”

“Queen Daenerys is dead,” Grey Worm responded.

Jon nodded. “I know. I killed her.”

The queen’s Master of War glared, his face an angry grimace. “You betrayed her.”

“I did what needed to be done,” he replied firmly. “I only regret it had to be done at all. Perhaps she should’ve stayed in Essos, but she made her choices. Those choices caused suffering and death for thousands of innocent people— _my people_ —and you helped her.”

“So did you and your northmen,” the Unsullied commander sneered.

He sighed, feeling a deep sense of sadness. “And I’ll regret it until the end of my days. I can’t change the past. I can only strive to make decisions that better the future. My people have suffered enough bloodshed. I want to make peace. What do _you_ want?”

Grey Worm remained silent for several moments. He turned to face the Unsullied behind him, their miserable, exhausted faces staring back at him. He then turned back, resigned. “My men want to go home.”

Pleased, Jon nodded. “Then they’ll go home.”

Sansa watched as Grey Worm and the Unsullied and Dothraki walked back through the city gates soon after. They’d be sailing back across the Narrow Sea as soon as ships could be arranged. She turned to look at Jon as he conversed with Ser Davos and her uncle Edmure, and could see the relief pouring off him. She knew he was tired of fighting, tired of war. She wanted nothing more than to just take him home, where they could spend the rest of their days in Winterfell, away from these troubles. But the king’s moot tomorrow loomed over them, the realm’s fate—and theirs—hanging in the balance.

Jon turned towards her, their eyes met and held, and he smiled at her with a look of tenderness. Her heart started pounding beneath her ribs and she literally trembled all over, her breathing becoming shallow. She had realized her love for him long before, that it was different from her love for her siblings. That she only wanted Jon’s company, and his alone, for the rest of her life, that she never wanted to be parted from him. That she’d wanted him to hold her in his arms and kiss her. But since their reunion in the camp, something had shifted, changed.

Maybe it was the time spent apart while coming to the full acceptance of his true identity. Maybe it was because they were now finally free—free from the constraint of a sibling relationship, free from the dragon queen. Whatever the reason was, something long dormant had suddenly been awakened: desire. She hadn’t felt such trembling since her girlish daydreams of Loras Tyrell, when she’d been yet unaware of what these feelings had meant.

Sansa now not only yearned for Jon’s company, his nearness, and even his kiss, but she craved him—all of him. She burned inside with a passion that made her feel almost desperate, vague notions of an intense pleasure that could be hers if she could just get him alone and all to herself. She wanted him like she had never wanted anything before. She wanted to touch him, to feel his warm, bare skin beneath her fingers. She wanted him to touch her—all over, everywhere. She wanted to go to sleep in his arms.

As he approached her, she chewed her bottom lip, trying to force herself to stop shaking. He gave her another soft smile when he reached her side. “You should return to camp,” he said. “It’s late—almost nightfall. Tomorrow will be a tiring day with the trial and the king’s moot.”

Sansa nodded, nervously playing with her fingers. “Will you come and see me before you retire? We haven’t had a chance to talk alone.”

Jon gulped, hesitating, unsure. His heart hammered inside his chest, something in the pit of his stomach tightened into a knot. He knew there was a powerful bond between them. He had felt it whenever their eyes met. But since he had wept and unburdened himself in her arms, there was now something heavy and palpable in the air—something primal— when they were near each other. He remembered the last time they’d been alone, in his bedchamber in Winterfell. He remembered his arms going around her, her silk-covered flesh warm beneath his hands. He remembered the way she’d caressed his face and gazed at his mouth. A line had almost been crossed, one there was no going back from. But things were different now—he was free. “Aye, I’ll come.”

She smiled, her cheeks becoming flushed, and turned to walk away, Jon gazing after her.

*****

It was nearly dark when Jon approached the tent where Tyrion Lannister was being held. The Stark guardsmen at the door bowed their heads and murmured a quiet, “Your Grace.” They wanted to enter with him, as protection, but he declined. Jon lifted the flap and stepped inside. Only one candle had been lit and the tent was dark, its canvas walls flapping like wings at every gust of wind. The prisoner sat on the floor, bound to the center pole, his hands resting in his lap, wrists clasped in iron chains. A brown wool blanket and a chamber pot had been laid on the floor within his reach.

“Did you bring me any wine?” he grumbled.

 “Yes.” Jon lifted the flagon and cup he’d been carrying, and poured. “From the Arbor.”

Tyrion sighed as he took the cup and sipped from it. “A golden vintage,” he said appreciatively. “Fruity and rich. The Arbor makes the best wine in the world.”

“Daenerys is dead,” he replied, not in the mood for idle talk.

“I’d gathered that from the celebratory mood of the camp, not to mention the fact you’re standing here, alive,” drawled Tyrion in a contemptuous tone.

His face hardening, Jon clenched his jaw. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

The dwarf drank down the rest of his cup, before holding it out. After it was filled again, he gulped that down as well. “How do you suppose to take the city from Grey Worm?”

Jon considered him a moment. “They don’t want the city. They don’t want to stay in Westeros. They want to sail back home. So, they will.”

Tyrion frowned. “So, you’ve won the capital back from an invading force without so much as a fight. Another impressive victory to add to your long list of accomplishments.” He heaved a sigh. “And what’s going to happen to me?”

“You’ll have a trial,” he answered.

“Trials are my lot in life, it seems,” Tyrion quipped. “And you’ll be the judge, I suppose, _Your Grace_.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “I wonder what the outcome will be.”

Shaking his head, Jon pursed his lips. “I’m recusing myself. I have no freedom of speech in this matter. By the time the trial is over, I’m sure you’ll wish I had been the judge.”

He looked up from his empty cup and stared at him, brows furrowing. “Who is the judge? Or will there be several deciding my fate?”

“Only one judge is needed,” replied Jon, pouring him a third. “The new Hand of the King.”

“You’ve established your governance already, have you? How nice.”

He sighed, seating himself on a nearby chair. “Nothing’s been established, really. The Hand position is a temporary—yet necessary—one to dispense justice. I’m only king by default. Nothing is official. I haven’t been crowned or even named as such. Following your trial, there’s to be a king’s moot.”

Tyrion scoffed. “A king’s moot.” He shook his head. “Then what’s the point of being the rightful heir? What was the point of the realm marching to fight for you? You killed Daenerys. You won the throne.”

“I didn’t do it for the throne,” Jon answered soberly. “Besides, there is no throne anymore. It’s been destroyed. That’s why there’s to be a king’s moot. I’m an heir to nothing, and the great lords of the realm might not want another Targaryen rule. And after what Daenerys did to the capital, not to mention what her father did…”

“The great lords of Westeros are nothing if not set in their ways,” noted Tyrion. “I think you’ll find the line of succession matters, even if that line is a Targaryen one.”

His eyes hardened. “You mean the way it mattered to you?” he said caustically.

The dwarf grimaced, averting his eyes. “I betrayed you, I know, but I had made my choice to believe in my queen and…”

“You endangered Sansa,” Jon snapped, interrupting him. He felt a cold rage building inside him. “You made her a target of the queen’s wrath.”

“Sansa made herself a target,” Tyrion replied angrily. “Just the way she _looked_ at the queen made her a target, the way she looked at _you_. I may be a fool, but I’m not blind.”

He stared, his brows furrowing.

Scoffing, Tyrion pursed his lips. “You honestly think I don’t know what is going on between you and Sansa? That I didn’t see it at the feast in Winterfell? That I didn’t see it written all over her face when she didn’t want you to go to King’s Landing?” He paused, shaking his head. _“Love is the death of duty._ You said that. How long has it been going on? Since you found out you’re not her brother?”

Jon gaped at him, his mind swirling, his throat tightening, unable to speak a reply. He swallowed.

“No…,” Tyrion realized, gazing at him. “Long before that. You really _are_ a Targaryen. I know a sisterfucker when I see one, believe me. You get to have it all, don’t you?” His tone became bitter, hateful. “A bastard made Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. A walking miracle, brought back to life by the gods. King in the North. You got to fuck my beautiful queen. You used her armies and dragons to win your war. You became the hero that killed the conqueror, and you were the one true king all along. Now you’ll get to fuck my wife, if you haven’t already, and make her your queen.”

“I haven’t _touched_ Sansa,” Jon replied defensively, averting his eyes, a flurry of emotions swirling inside him.

He sneered with derision. “But you want to, don’t you? Oh, you _want_ to. You’ve wanted to for a long time. The northern fool, the noble Jon Snow, wanted to fuck his sister. Not so honorable now, are we? What would Ned Stark say? Don’t worry, I can’t say I blame you. I wanted to fuck her, too. I admit it, as shameful as it was having a child bride in my bed. I should’ve taken her maidenhead when I had the chance.”

Rage boiling over, Jon grabbed the dwarf by the throat with such ferocity that he lifted him off the ground. Tyrion began choking and kicking his legs, but he only squeezed tighter. When the small man’s eyes began rolling, he finally let go, dropping him hard on the floor. Tyrion coughed and sputtered, trying to regain his balance while rubbing the marks Jon’s fingers had left on his neck.

Breathing hard, trying to rein in his anger, Jon turned and walked back towards the door.

“Who did you appoint as your Hand?” Tyrion croaked desperately.

He heard the fear in his ragged voice, and turned back. “Sansa.” Jon smiled ruefully. “Sleep well.” He then lifted the tent flap and walked out.

*****

Although the burning coals in the iron braziers gave off enough warmth and light for comfort, Sansa paced around her pavilion, her stomach in anxious knots. She had left Jon with the other lords to discuss the procurement of enough ships to send the dragon queen’s forces back across the Narrow Sea. Time was getting on and he hadn’t come yet. She wouldn’t be able to sleep if she wasn’t able to speak to him before tomorrow. The impending king’s moot weighed heavily on her mind, not knowing just what might be asked of him, what sacrifices he might have to make for the good of the realm. She knew he would be the one chosen, but all that could possibly entail…

“Are you all right, my lady?” inquired Brienne.

The question broke Sansa’s reverie. Her sworn sword was sitting at the table in the middle of the large tent, her brows knitting with a look of concern. “Yes, I’m fine.” She sighed. “It’s terribly late, Brienne. You should retire to your own tent and get some sleep.”

The knight shook her head. “I’d hate to leave you unprotected, my lady, when there are still so many enemies nearby. The queen’s armies haven’t left yet.”

“But I’m not unprotected,” she pointed out. “There are guards posted outside all around my tent.”

“That’s never stopped an enemy before,” Brienne said archly.

A smile tugged at her lips. “I don’t think any shadow… man… creatures are going to come in here and murder me.”

She stood up from the table. “All the same, my lady, I don’t think you can be too carefu….”

The door then flung open, and Jon entered the tent. Sansa turned to gaze at him, her heart instantly racing. “Brienne, please leave,” she spoke to her sworn sword without taking her eyes off him.

The knight glanced between them, standing there staring at each other in an intense silence. A look of dawning realization then spread across her face. “Yes, my lady,” Brienne said, and immediately began walking towards the door. With a quick departing, “Your Grace” as she lifted the flap, she was soon gone.

Jon and Sansa continued to gaze at one another, suddenly finding themselves alone, each waiting for the other to speak first. His eyes were the first to fall. “I can’t find Arya anywhere,” he told her, breaking the silence. His little sister hadn’t been seen in hours. It was long past nightfall, and everyone in the camp was accounted for except for her.

She considered his words for a moment, not having expected him to speak of her sister. Then she smirked knowingly. “Have you checked the Baratheon camp? I imagine you’ll find her in Lord Gendry’s tent.”

“If she keeps this up, we’ll have to marry them,” Jon quipped. “The realm has seen enough of scandal, I’d say.”

“Maybe we should all just take on the Dornish way of looking at relationships,” replied Sansa.

He shrugged. “She wouldn’t marry him just because _we_ told her she should. So, I guess it doesn’t matter, scandal or not.”

She nodded in agreement. “No, she wouldn’t.”

Then they were staring at each other again. Jon could feel his heart hammering inside his chest. The tension was unbearable. He didn’t know what to do about it. He half wanted to run out of the tent, half wanted to…

“So… um… the king’s moot tomorrow…,” Sansa began, her heart pounding beneath her ribs. Gods, her palms were sweating. Her breathing was growing shallow. All she’d wanted was to get him alone, but now that she had him, she felt frozen, waiting for him to do or say _something._

The tension went up a notch but Jon said nothing. He had been trying not to think about the king’s moot. The only thing he wanted was to go home with Sansa. And so, of course, the chances of him getting exactly what he wanted were small to none, if his life up until this point was anything to go by. She was gazing at him expectantly, wanting him to speak. “Gendry makes for a good contender,” he finally said. “King Robert’s blood, and not fathered by a Targaryen. We should give him our support.”

“They’re going to choose you, Jon,” she spoke quietly.

“You don’t know that, Sansa.”

“Yes, I do. It’s all been arranged.” Her stomach was in knots. “You are the king we are all going to support. Dorne will have its independence, and so will the North. The remaining kingdoms will need your leadership to bring them some semblance of peace and stability. So much needs to be done to restore order and to care for the people who have suffered.”

He closed his eyes, hanging his head. He never wanted this. _No man is as cursed as the kinslayer._ He didn’t think he could do this alone. “And what are you going to do?” he questioned, gazing at her with bated breath.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “I’m going home, where I belong.”

Feeling miserable, he heaved a sigh.

“You belong there, too, Jon.” She moved closer to him. “You always have. But the south needs you. I know you never wanted to be king, but you’re a good one. You’ll be a just and honorable king.” She smiled sadly. “You have this… way… about you. You have true power, where others only have force. You have my father’s gift for inspiring loyalty. Even in your enemies. You made Daenerys loyal to you, despite everything. You turned Tormund and the wildlings from foes to friends for life. He’ll do anything for you. It’s a real gift, and a rare one, and you shouldn’t let it go to waste. Where others would inspire only fear and betrayal, you make them love you.”

He averted his eyes from hers. It wasn’t the people’s love he yearned for. There was only one person’s love he wanted. He could once again sense the strong pull of duty and all its burdens, a feeling of bitterness welling up inside.

“You’re brave and gentle and strong,” she said quietly, moving even closer to stand before him.

“You don’t need to flatter me,” he murmured. “We both know I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Sansa scoffed. “Flattery?” Tears came to her eyes as she stepped forward. “Don’t you know how much I love you? Can’t you see?”

Jon stared at her, speechless, as a quiet joy began to grow in his heart. Their eyes met in a steady gaze. The silence lengthened. The air was humming with anticipation, the tension between them palpable. The tension of two people who loved each other dearly, having been thrown together under harrowing circumstances, and whose love had been denied them for far too long: they could almost hear each other breathing.

The tears standing in her eyes welled up and brimmed over. Those clear blue eyes, with their depths of intelligence and affection and hidden yearnings, set Jon’s pulse throbbing, and he dared to reach up and cradle her face in his hand. “Sansa—”

A moment passed, heavy with the possibility of all that could be, the air burning between them, their hearts racing. She leaned forward and kissed him. Sansa forgot about everything else. There was nothing but the feel of his lips on hers, warm and soft and all consuming. The taste of him was in her mind, her body, her soul. When he kissed her back, her mouth tingled with the most wonderful feeling. Her body warmed and flushed all over, and she deepened the kiss. Jon made a soft sound in the back of his throat, a distinct sound of pure pleasure. It lit her body up, burning through her. She wanted to hear it again. Wrapping her arms around him, her hands found his hair and tangled in his curls.

A lingering sense of what once had been forbidden sizzled between them, only causing Jon to burn even deeper with passion, with a desire he had not felt in years. His hands came around her, pulling her towards him. The sweet taste of her would be forever seared in his heart, his mind, his soul. He would never forget this moment. He gentled the kiss, savoring the feel of her lips on his. Nothing was more real than this. He felt the heat of her body pressed against him, smelled the flowery fragrance in her hair, relished the pressure of her arms around his neck. It was everything he’d ever wanted.

Jon’s hands stroked her hair, the silky red strands that tumbled down her back. Sansa parted her lips and their tongues met. He held her tighter, unwilling to let her go. His muscles felt hard beneath his tunic, and she ran her hands along the fabric, wanting her hands on his skin, wanting to touch every part of him. She wanted him like the air she breathed. She wanted him like she had never wanted anyone or anything before.

When they finally broke away, they both gasped for breath. Jon was looking at her with his brown eyes, dark and burning with hunger, trying to ignore the tension stirring in his groin. “Sansa…” He felt desperate for her, for something he feared might not be possible. His gaze suddenly turned earnest, and it all came pouring out. “I love you. I’ve always loved you, ever since we were children. Marry me and be my queen. Rule beside me. I don’t want to do this without you. I don’t even know if I can. I need you.” He felt hot tears prick his eyes. “I need you,” he breathed.

She stared at him, and for one brief moment a wave of joy flooded her heart. She was soon stricken with a painful reminder of the situation they were in. She sighed, closing her eyes. “My place is in Winterfell.” She spoke with confidence, but her heart was conflicted and sorely grieved. “Bran isn’t capable. And Arya—as strong and brave and skillful as she is—she isn’t capable either. She also has no interest. It wouldn’t be fair to her, or our people, to force her into that position.” She sniffled tearfully. “The duty falls on me. I can’t stay here. I have to go home.”

The thought of another separation, and one that was permanent, was unbearable. Her lips trembled. His throat was tight and he couldn’t speak. He gazed at her as she placed a hand on his chest. He lifted his own and held hers over his heart, and they both felt the maddening beat of it. “I love you,” he again told her, whispering softly. “And it’s never going to go away because I’m never going to stop loving you.”

Tears fell from Sansa’s eyes once more. “I love you, too, Jon. I always will.”

She had said it—aloud. Jon didn’t have to wonder. And the words filled him at once with joy and grief: joy in the knowledge that she loved him as fully as he loved her, but anguish over what could never be theirs. Gently, he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. She shuddered, letting out a shaky breath.

“Until tomorrow,” he whispered.

Sansa watched him turn and move away from her. He lifted the flap of the tent door and disappeared behind it. Jon stood outside her tent for several moments, conflicting thoughts and emotions raging inside him. He was tired of duty and honor. In the Red Keep’s ruined throne room, he’d chosen love over both. He wanted to keep choosing love. He turned and stared in the direction where he knew the Baratheon camp lay. His mind made up, he started walking towards it.

*****

Arya lay beside Gendry, her arm draped over his body. She felt a lovely, warm afterglow as she gazed at him. He’d fallen asleep, long eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks, his mouth slightly open. She was enjoying this more than she should. She knew it wouldn’t last, and that their paths led in different directions, but why shouldn’t she enjoy it while it did? She snuggled up against him.

Gendry woke with a start, looked at her and smiled. “Sorry for falling asleep.”

She smirked. “It’s all right. You’ve done quite a lot of exercise today.”

He blushed, grinning at her. “This isn’t the sort of exercise I’m used to.”

Arya smiled. He’d told her that he had been with no one but her since leaving Winterfell. She warmed at the thought. “I know.” Beneath the wool blanket, she ran her fingers down his stomach to his groin and gently stroked his softened cock. “Do you think you’re up for some more?” she whispered.

“Again?” he chuckled. “We’ve been at it all evening.” He groaned as she continued to stroke him. “I think maybe we should eat something. You know, regain our strength.”

She giggled.

The tent door then flung open, startling them. Gendry’s eyes widened. “Your Grace,” he yelped, before quickly rolling out of bed to put some clothes on.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Arya grumbled, rolling her eyes as she turned and reached over the bedside to pick up her dark grey tunic.

Jon stood with a commanding pose; his hands clasped behind his back. “I need to speak with Gendry,” he told her.

Pulling the tunic over her head, she slid out of the bed and stood up, the hem reaching almost to her knees. “What are you going to do to him?” she demanded, annoyed, as she reached for her breeches.

“I’m just going to talk to him, Arya.” He spoke in a tone that brooked no argument. “Alone.”

Moments later, she was fully dressed and walking towards the door. She turned back and gave Gendry a pointed look. “Don’t say anything stupid.”

He stared after her, looking chastised, as she left the tent.

Once she was gone, Jon’s hard expression turned into a smirk. “Fucking the king’s sister, eh?”

Clearing his throat, Gendry gave him a sheepish look. “I have honorable intentions, I swear it, Your Grace. I’ve asked her to marry me. Several times. She keeps telling me no.”

Jon pursed his lips, nodding. “I think I might know how you feel. And you don’t have to call me that. I may be the son of a prince, but you’re the son of a king—the last legitimate King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He blinked, his brows furrowing.

“Not to mention, we’re related,” he continued. “We’re family. Second cousins, or cousins once removed… Twice removed? Who the fucking hell knows?” He sighed, shaking his head. “Targaryens.” Jon walked further into the tent and took a seat at the oaken table near the center pole. “I have a proposition for you.” He looked up to see Gendry grinning at him as he seated himself in a chair across the table. “Before you get too excited, it’s nothing like any you may have gotten from my sister.”

They smirked at each other, Gendry’s face reddening.

“Now, let’s discuss some family business,” Jon dictated.

An hour later, Yohn Royce, Robyn Arryn, and Edmure Tully were summoned along with Ser Garth Hightower of the Reach and Ser Davos. They conversed well into the night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice that yet another chapter had to be added. I'm sorry, I'm a menace lol. One, this chapter was a beast and just working out this plot took up over 8k alone. Two, the Jon/Sansa happy ending deserves its own separate chapter, apart from the trial and the politics of it all.

When dawn arrived, and with it the berths of the _Kraken’s Kiss_ and the _Arbor Queen_ in Blackwater Bay, a large feast tent was erected on neutral ground close to the shore overlooking the water. Yara Greyjoy and Lord Paxter Redwyne were not the only newcomers. Lady Arwyn of House Oakheart, an ancient and powerful family from Old Oak in the Reach, had also arrived with two of her sons. Janei Lannister, the youngest and only surviving child of Ser Kevan, had come to the capital with her mother, Lady Dorna, having traveled from Lannisport at Sansa’s invitation. They arrived along with other nobles of the Westerlands, Lady Lefford and Lords Westerling, Marbrand, and Lydden. From the Crownlands, Lord Rykker of Duskendale and Lord Massey of Stonedance had joined the gathered party.

Samwell Tarly, recently-appointed Lord of Horn Hill, also arrived that morning. After Jon breakfasted with Sam, hearing all about Horn Hill and the well-being of Gilly and his mother and sister, he made his way to Sansa’s pavilion, although it was still quite early. When he reached her door, Brienne of Tarth was stepping out of it. “Your Grace,” she greeted him.

“Can she receive me, or should I come back later?” he asked, nodding towards the tent.

“Lady Sansa is decent. She’s just been served some food. Please try to get her to eat something.”

He nodded as Brienne walked away. Then lifting the flap, he entered. The oaken table in the middle of the tent was indeed adorned with a platter of hot bread, butter and blackberry preserves, rashers of bacon, and soft-boiled eggs. But Sansa wasn’t seated at the table. Instead, she was pacing around, nervously playing with her fingers. When she stopped and turned to fully face him, her beauty took his breath away. She was striking—tall and slender, with her flawless skin, rosy lips, and lovely blue eyes. Her silky auburn hair had been pulled back from her face and tumbled loose over her shoulders along with two distinctive braids. The dress she wore was of soft black lambswool, the form-fitting bodice of supple black leather. There was something about her that was all at once commanding and graceful—a warrior queen.

Sansa flushed hot under his gaze. His eyes traveled all over her hair, her face, and she could tell he liked what he saw. “You look lovely,” he said. A thrill shot through her. She never felt more beautiful than when he was looking at her. She tried to douse her feelings with a reminder of the cold, hard reality of their situation. Jon would become the most powerful man in Westeros, his claim and his reputation would give him a throne in the south, and there he would rule, far away from her.

“How are you?” she asked matter-of-factly. “Did you sleep well?”

“No.” He sighed. “But I’m all right. You?”

She avoided answering. “Can I offer you anything?” she replied, gesturing to the table laden with food.

Moving further into the tent, he shook his head. “No, thank you. I already ate with Sam. You should eat, though. It’s going to be a long day.”

“I’m too nervous to eat.” She went back to playing with her fingers. “I’m glad Sam made it. The Reach will be a tricky situation for you. You’ll need to choose a new Warden, or Lord Paramount or Lord Protector—whatever you decide to do with the southern kingdoms. House Tyrell is gone, but Mace Tyrell’s sister is married to Lord Paxter and the Arbor has the largest fleet in Westeros—two hundred warships. House Redwyne is powerful and capable, but the Arbor is an island and you might want to select a House on the mainland. Sam is the heir to House Tarly, but his wife is a wildling and Little Sam isn’t even his true son.”

Sansa was pacing in front of him, her mind thinking of all possible scenarios and outcomes. “Of course, I don’t think that bit about Little Sam is known to the public, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t eventually become known. You’ll need to think about how that could affect those who may become subject to House Tarly’s authority. Say that Sam makes him his heir and then later on it somehow becomes known that he is actually the product of Gilly and _her father_. Twenty years from now you may have some serious conflict in the Reach you’ll have to deal with. Sam is also your friend, and the other lords may bristle at any appearance of playing favorites instead of choosing the most qualified candidate.”

Jon stared at her, amazed. Gods, he hadn’t even thought about any of that. He was thankful the Reach wouldn’t be his problem to solve, but she was obviously much better equipped to deal with the politics of ruling than he was. “I shouldn’t be king. You should be the queen.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“The North will need a queen.” A smile tugged at his lips as he stepped towards her.

She didn’t want to think about that right now. If she were to dwell on what her future would look like without him, she’d weep. His deep brown eyes gazed at her, sparkling with intensity and that same look of unabashed attraction. Her stomach fluttering nervously, Sansa sighed and looked away.

Giving her a sympathetic look, he moved closer. “Let’s just get through the trial and then we can… we can… talk about this other stuff.”

“Yeah,” she breathed.

He started to move past her and back towards the tent door. Stopping suddenly, as if he couldn’t help himself, he turned and kissed her soundly. Jon hadn’t planned on it, but the impulse had overpowered him. His hands went up to frame her face, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs as the kiss deepened. Sansa became lost in the surprised thrill of the kiss, completely caught off-guard by it, and forgot everything except his warm mouth on hers. She held his face in her hands, kissing him back passionately.

Jon broke the kiss with a gasp, like a drowning man, and leaned into her. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he brushed their noses. “Oh gods,” he breathed, taking her hand and placing it over his heart, pounding like mad inside his chest. What was this feeling? He was on the verge of getting everything he had ever wanted, and his emotions were overwhelming. “I’ve never felt this way before.”

Letting out a breathy laugh, Sansa gazed at him in confusion and wonder. He looked so… happy. That was the only way she could describe it; his eyes sparkled with joy. He then dropped her hand and stepped away from her. “I should go and speak with some of our lords bannermen,” he said. She nodded and watched him move over to the tent door. Jon turned back and threw a pointed look at the table where her breakfast lay. “Eat something.” Then he lifted the flap and walked out.

*****

By noon, most everyone had gathered beneath the feast tent. For the trial, a tall black chair of oak and leather was placed in the middle of the tent, apart from the assembled group on either side. To the left, Sansa sat between Jon and Arya. With them were Brienne and Podrick. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned to see the envoy from Dorne entering the pavilion. When Lord Greenhill met her gaze, he smiled and walked over.

The female herald walked beside him and they soon came to a stop in front of Sansa. The woman gave a slight bow of her head as she gazed at her and Jon. The breeze coming off the bay swirled around her, blowing through her gown of red and gold silk with every gust. “Your Grace. Lady Stark. I present Olyvar Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, Lord of Yronwood, and High King of Dorne.”

Sansa’s eyes went wide. The man who’d once been introduced to her as Lord Greenhill held his hands behind his back and bounced on his heels, grinning at her. He turned to Jon. “So, I meet the hidden king at last, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. The silver prince. He had the blood of old Valyria, the blood of dragons and gods. I never saw a more beautiful man. When I was a boy, I had the privilege of seeing him ride in a tourney once. I was in the viewing stands with my mother and my uncle Lord Edgar and his children. The cheer of the smallfolk when Prince Rhaegar rode into the arena was like the sound of rolling thunder. I had never seen anything like it. He won that tourney, and then rode right past his own wife, Princess Elia of Dorne, to lay a crown of pale blue roses on the lap of Lyanna Stark. The cheering smallfolk were shocked into silence.” He paused briefly at the memory. “Tell me, will you rule in your father’s name when you sit on your throne?”

Jon was slightly taken aback by the directness of the question. “I won’t rule in Rhaegar’s name, no.” His face then hardened with a look of defiance. “Winter came for House Targaryen.”

King Olyvar nodded his head appreciatively. “So, it is true, then. You really are the son of Eddard Stark. Good.” He then turned a warm smile on Sansa, his eyes sparkling. “It is a pleasure to once again be in your remarkable presence, my lady.”

“I thank you again for coming so far, Your Grace. I hope your stay this part of the country has been to your liking.”

He shrugged his shoulders, pursing his lips while running his fingers through his greying dark beard. “Nothing truly compares to Dorne… except maybe your beauty.” She blushed, averting her eyes and glancing at Jon, seeing him clench his jaw as his hands closed into fists. Olyvar looked between them, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Well, my lady, perhaps you will be happy to hear that I took your advice about the importance of unifying my kingdom. I’ll have you know that arrangements are being made between myself and Lord Trebor Jordayne of the Tor for a betrothal to his lovely daughter, Lady Myria.”

Sansa smiled. “I am happy to hear that, Your Grace. I wish you every joy and success.”

Jon watched as King Olyvar beamed. The Dornish king wasn’t the only one. In fact, they all did whenever she was around. She had a kind smile and an encouraging word for everyone. These lords and ladies that had gathered here hadn’t done so for him, not really. It was all for her, or because of her. Even more, he was amazed that she didn’t seem to notice the effect she had on other people. She also didn’t seem aware of her own beauty. There was no vanity, no striving to impress. She was simply being herself. And he was in love with her.

Gendry Baratheon soon arrived with Ser Davos. His presence was striking, confident, and he looked every bit the Lord of Storm’s End. He immediately walked over to the House Stark delegation to formally greet them, giving a slight bow of his head in Jon’s direction before addressing her. “Lady Stark.” He then turned to her sister. “My lady,” he murmured. His eyes glinted mischievously. Arya clenched her jaw, fighting a grin, but her eyes were warm.

“You’re looking well,” Sansa replied. “The lordship clearly agrees with you.” Beside her, Arya cleared her throat.

He smiled, his face becoming a bit red. “Thank you, my lady.”

She gazed over his shiny black doublet. It looked brand new and expensive, except for… “What’s with the… um… slash marks on the shoulders there?” she asked, gesturing to her own as she spoke. “Did you anger your tailor or is that part of the design? Do stags have claws that I’m unaware of?” she laughed.

“No, but wolves do,” Gendry answered.

With her tongue in her cheek, Sansa nodded and turned a pointed look at her sister. Arya coughed, refusing to meet her eye. As Gendry bowed and walked over to his own seat beside Davos, she turned to Jon. They shared a look. He sighed, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” he whispered, his expression one of amusement.

But Sansa couldn’t help but start to worry. Becoming a wife and lady wasn’t something her sister seemed to be hoping for, and she knew the Lord of Storm’s End couldn’t remain unwed and without heirs for too long. “But what happens down the road, when hard decisions need to be made? In the end, your mother didn’t want Robert the same way he wanted her, and look what happened. I’m not saying it would lead to serious conflict, but it certainly could cause problems. Anyone can become your friend, but anyone can become your enemy as well. We should consider all possible outcomes to this, even the worst ones.”

“You’re right,” Jon replied quietly. “We don’t know how it could turn out and the smart thing is to consider all possibilities. But Gendry is not Robert—he’s better—and Arya is not Lyanna. Perhaps happiness lies in their future, no matter what happens.” He smiled, his eyes soft and tender. “You shouldn’t be so cynical. Have some faith. Even after all you’ve been through, all you’ve seen, it’s not silly or fanciful to hope for the best, or to expect good things from people. You say you learned a lot from Cersei and Lord Baelish, but the girl who left for King’s Landing with her heart full of hopes and dreams—she’s still in there somewhere. I know she is.”

Her throat became tight with emotion and she could feel hot tears prick her eyes. She loved him. She loved him more than she’d thought it possible to love another person. Because he was honorable and good. Because despite all that had happened to him, he still believed in the goodness of others, no matter how foolish that belief sometimes seemed to her. Because he was kind and compassionate and merciful. Because he was the best man she’d ever known. Because he was everything she’d ever wanted all along.

“Are you talking about me?” Arya suddenly interjected.

“No,” they replied in unison, turning to look at her.

She grumbled a reply.

Just then guards were seen approaching at a short distance escorting Tyrion Lannister, whose hands were still clasped in iron. Sansa exchanged a look with Jon, who nodded, and she stood. Moments later she was seated in the tall oak-and-leather chair in the middle of the tent, her stomach filling with nerves. Leaving his guards behind at the edge of the pavilion, Tyrion entered and walked forward until he reached Brienne’s side where she stood sentinel a few yards in front of Sansa.

He gazed all around where lords and ladies sat on either side of them beneath the tent. Facing the high seat, he bowed his head. “Lady Sansa.”

Other than looking a bit rumpled, she didn’t think he appeared to be too poorly. “My lord. How did your time pass in our camp?”

Seemingly baffled by the question, he furrowed his brows and lifted his chained hands. “Well, I was a prisoner, so…”

“Yes, but were you given enough food and drink? Were you mistreated in any way by my men or anyone else?”

“No, my lady,” he answered, again nonplussed at such questioning. “I mean, yes, I was given plenty, and no, I wasn’t mistreated. I thank you for your… consideration.”

Sansa then entwined her fingers in her lap. “You stand here accused of murder, sedition, and treason. Do you understand these charges?”

Tyrion heaved a sigh. “I think so.”

“On the charge of murder, you are accused of killing your father…”

“An evil monster of a man who committed heinous crimes, of which Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn fell victim to themselves.” He gazed about those gathered. “You’re welcome.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.

She stared, pursing her lips. He had a point. No one mourned Tywin. Her face hardened. “You murdered Shae.”

Closing his eyes, Tyrion hung his head. “Yes, I killed the woman I loved. She stood in the throne room and told lies about me, humiliated me. She told them all that I had been the one to murder Joffrey. She accused you as well—said we’d hatched the murderous plot together. Her false testimony led to a declaration of guilt to a crime I was innocent of.”

“And what do you think Cersei would’ve done to her had she spoke the truth?” Sansa arched. “Do you honestly think she had any real choice other than to say exactly what they wanted her to say?”

“I’m not proud of what I did! I hated myself for it, and for a long time afterwards I yearned for my own death. I can wish with all my might, but I can’t take back what I did. I can only voice my sincere regret and heartbreak over my own actions.”

Sansa glanced over at Jon, who gave her a small encouraging smile. She turned back to the prisoner. “On the charge of sedition, you are accused of organizing the foreign invasion of a hostile force with intentions to destroy the established ruling power.”

Gazing at those seated all around, he spoke. “No one here wanted Cersei as their queen, an evil, selfish woman who didn’t care at all about the people she ruled over. Her only love was greed—greed for power. She left Westeros torn and bleeding.”

“No one here wanted Daenerys Targaryen as their queen either,” she glowered. To her right, Yara Greyjoy cleared her throat. Sansa turned to look at her, arching her brow. “You only wanted help getting your uncle Euron out of the way, and I believe you asked the dragon queen for the Iron Islands’ independence. Or do I have that wrong?” Theon’s sister leaned back in her chair, saying nothing in reply, and she turned back to Tyrion. “The Targaryens were justifiably removed from power. Robert Baratheon won the throne by conquest.”

“And he had no legitimate heirs,” he retorted.

Sansa gave him a derisive smirk. “Which brings us to your third, and final, charge: treason. You are accused of supporting the wrongful claim of a usurper upon learning the existence of the rightful heir to the throne. You are accused of conspiring with the usurper to silence this truth, leading to the murder of Lord Varys. You are also accused of conspiring with the usurper to hold the true king as a hostage against the realm’s forced allegiance as ransom.”

Tyrion clenched his jaw. “I had already bent the knee. We all have difficult choices to make in our lives. I chose to be loyal to Queen Daenerys. Jon had no interest in being the king, and I believed in _her_. She had wanted to make the world a better place.”

“And then she slaughtered a city full of innocent lives,” Sansa snapped.

“She had promised to halt hostilities if the city surrendered! I believed she would. I was wrong. I was wrong to believe her.”

Memories of their conversations about Daenerys swirled inside her mind. “How many people died because you were wrong?”

He shook his head. “Far too many. And that same question can be asked to countless men and women throughout history. We all make choices, believing we’re making the right ones, and many times we’re wrong. Sometimes the fact we’re wrong leads to the loss of life—innocent life—even though that was never our intention and was something we wanted to prevent.”

Jon stared, a sick feeling of guilt settling in his gut. Tyrion met his gaze for a long moment before turning back to face his judge. “I’m just human, with human flaws. I can only hope to learn from my mistakes and make better choices in future… If I have a future. I’m guilty of the charges you’ve laid against me. So, what’s to become of me?”

“What do you think is a fitting punishment?” Tyrion was seemingly at a loss for words and couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer her. She considered him, inwardly debating the matter. She thought she had already decided what to do with Tyrion before the trial had even began, that his fate had already been sealed, but memories of the girl who’d left Winterfell so long ago for the capital were now swirling inside her mind and casting shadows of self-doubt. Her eyes then met Jon’s and held. She decided to choose mercy.

“Henceforth, you will be stripped of all rank and titles, of all lands, incomes, and holdings belonging to House Lannister and any others that may have been promised to you by Daenerys Targaryen. You will never again rise to any rank or title nor will you ever inherit any lands in Westeros. When the Unsullied and Dothraki sail for Essos, you will sail with them. Until then, you will remain as a prisoner under House Stark’s guard. And if you ever set foot on this land again, you will be executed without trial.”

Tyrion lowered his widened gaze and stared at the ground. When he lifted his head again, there were tears in his eyes. “Exile is a bitter cup to drink from.”

“A sweeter cup than Daenerys served the people of King’s Landing, and kinder than you deserve,” Sansa said. She motioned to the guards waiting at the far edge of the pavilion.

Moments later, those assembled inside were standing and conversing with one another. Jon walked over to stand beside Sansa and they watched as the guards led Tyrion away from the tent and back to camp. “He will always regret serving Daenerys,” she said.

“As will I. If Tyrion’s regrets are half as painful as mine, he will suffer enough.”

“Do you honestly compare your actions with his?”

Jon smiled sadly. “No. I compare them with what they should have been. I compare them with yours.”

His words of validation brought tears to Sansa’s eyes. She gazed at him, feeling a rush of sympathy, not knowing what to say, her throat tightening as a whirl of emotions filled her chest. Before she could find the words, her oak-and-leather high seat was taken away as a large and heavy table was carried into the tent by a group of Ironborn. Jon instantly recognized it. The table was a great slab of carved wood commissioned by Aegon the Conqueror before his invasion. It was shaped after the land of Westeros, every bay and peninsula carved out so that no side had a straight edge. On its surface, the Seven Kingdoms had been painted. The king’s moot was about to begin.

*****

The lords and ladies present sat around the Painted Table and silently gazed over the map of Westeros. It was time for decisions to be made. One by one, all eyes turned to Jon where he sat at the far end of the table in front of the Wall. They were all watching him, waiting for him to address his claim to rule. He locked eyes with Gendry, who sat at the other end in front of Dorne, with Davos on his right and Olyvar Yronwood on his left.

“Everyone here knows by now of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, of their secret marriage and my birth, and what Lord Eddard Stark did to protect me from King Robert,” Jon began. He had their rapt attention. “Robert Baratheon died without any trueborn children to succeed him, and I’m sure everyone here has surely suffered in some way due to the chaos this brought on the realm. The Iron Throne has also been destroyed—something Robert should’ve done long ago—and this leaves the line of succession cloudy.”

Janei Lannister, a girl of ten, who sat beside her mother on the Westerlands side of the large table, spoke up. “Does this mean the Seven Kingdoms will return to what they were before Aegon the Conqueror invaded?”

Everyone looked at her. Jon smiled. There was something about her that reminded him of Lyanna Mormont. “That has been discussed in great detail, my lady. While some kingdoms would prosper under such an arrangement, such as Dorne, others are far too war torn, and their people in dire need of stable leadership, to support themselves independently. That may change in the future, but right now at least some portion of the realm will need to remain unified.”

While Edmure Tully and the lords of the Reach discussed the particular hardships that their kingdoms had been enduring since the War of Five Kings, Jon turned to Sansa, seated on his right. She met his gaze and their eyes held for a moment. Her stomach was in knots, but she gave him an encouraging nod. “Do you love me?” he whispered. She nervously glanced at the others to see if they had heard him, but their attention lay on the conversation happening further down the table. “You know I do,” she said quietly.

He leaned closer. “If there was a way you could stay in Winterfell, always, would you accept me as your husband?”

Her cheeks flushed and she fought back a smile, feeling a mixture of joy and confusion. “If there was a way…” A strong sense of longing welled up inside her and she trembled. “Yes, but…” she breathed.

Jon smiled, his eyes soft and tender. “Okay, then.”

“The Riverlands have suffered the worse,” Edmure said, his voice growing louder, drawing their attention back to the discussion. “Robb Stark’s army marched through it. Tywin’s army. Stannis. The dragon queen and her savages. There have been more battles fought in our kingdom than all the rest. Between the North and the southern kingdoms, our lands are torn and our people are starving.”

“And the North is going to take care of your lands and people from now on,” Gendry interjected. He then locked eyes with Jon. “You want to tell the rest of them, or shall I?”

“There are some of you here who already know of the plan that’s been brought forward, but quite a few of you are in the dark.” Jon leaned back in his chair. “I’ve decided to surrender my claim to the Seven Kingdoms, and I am renouncing any claim I may have to a southern throne.”

Sansa stared at him in shock, as did Arya and several of the lords and ladies present. Looking about her, she noticed that others didn’t seem surprised at all by this announcement. Her heart pounded beneath her ribs. She couldn’t let him do this. To give up his claim to rule, his birthright—something so many others have fought and died for—was too much. Did he fully understand what he’d be giving up? Was he doing this just for her? “Jon,” she breathed. “You mustn’t…”

“My _true_ father, Ned Stark, fought to overthrow the Targaryens,” he continued, gazing at her for an intense moment before addressing the table once again. “And he supported the reign of King Robert. When he died without any true heirs, my father then supported the next rightful king in the Baratheon line of succession: Stannis. He had no desire to install the Targaryens back in power. Only one person of Robert’s blood remains: his son, legitimized with the Baratheon name and who is now Lord of Storm’s End.”

The group turned their attention to the other end of the table where Gendry sat. The former blacksmith, sitting with his head held high, a confident air about him, looked every bit a king with his expensive, form-fitting black doublet and good looks. The new Lord of Storm’s end was clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a hero in a young maiden’s fantasy. Sansa thought he was an impressive figure, and it seemed the others did as well.

Jon continued. “You may not know Lord Gendry well, yet, but I can attest to his valor and skill, his tenacity, his loyalty and worth, and his good-hearted nature. I think some others at this table can attest to the same, if not more so.” His eyes locked with Davos and then he glanced at Arya.

“But what does he know about being a king?” asked Lord Redwyne from where he sat at the Reach side of the massive table.

“Precious little,” Davos answered. “Which might be a good thing for a change. He’s seen the real world. He knows what it’s like to be poor, to be hungry. He knows what it’s like to slave day after day for measly wages. He learned how to appreciate hard work and he mastered a skill at a young age. And he’s a fighter who’s proved himself in battle. He’s looked death in the face, and survived.”

Gendry’s face reddened. “Ser Davos Seaworth will be my Hand. He served Stannis Baratheon for years and then proved himself to be a trustworthy adviser to Jon Snow. He’s knowledgeable, capable, and he’s experienced things most people never will. I’ll need help to be a good king, and that’s what a Small Council is for, but I promise to do everything I possibly can to protect and serve the people under my rule.”

The others murmured their assent. Olyvar Yronwood gazed at Jon with a curious expression. “And what does that mean for you? What are you going to do?”

“The lords of the North put their trust in me to lead them,” he said. “And in many ways, I let them down. I need to rectify my mistakes. I’m prepared to spend my life doing so—in Winterfell.”

Sansa closed her eyes and smiled to herself, a wave of happiness sweeping through her. Beside her, Arya looked down the table and smirked at Gendry. “I have to say, ‘King of the Five Kingdoms’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

The Lord of Storm’s End arched his brows at Jon, giving him a pointed look. He nodded. “The style will change,” Jon told them. “The titles that were inherited along with the Iron Throne will be dropped.”

“Calling yourself the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men seems quite arrogant, if you ask me,” Gendry added. Some of the lords and ladies around the table chuckled. “Descendants of the Rhoynar now have their own king.” He turned and looked to Olyvar Yronwood of Dorne, who nodded appreciatively.

“If everyone here agrees,” Davos said. “Then Gendry and his progeny will rule with different titles.”  

The others gathered around the table exchanged looks, murmured a few words, and then nodded their acceptance. Jon and Gendry then shared pointed glances with the lords they’d conversed with the night before, who nodded their understanding. “For nearly ten years, the realm has seen nothing but conflict,” Jon said. “Houses have been nearly wiped out, and many are without heirs. Thousands have fallen in battle, leaving kingdoms depleted, and not just of their fighting men, but fathers and sons, skilled laborers, farmers, and craftsmen. Some kingdoms, like the Reach and the Vale, haven’t lost nearly as many of their population as the Riverlands or the North.”

“We’d like to form a new border between the two realms,” Bronze Yohn proposed. “This boundary will add more land to the North’s dominion, but it will divide the population more equally between North and South.”

Ser Garth Hightower of Oldtown agreed. “It is hoped this plan will relieve some of the burden of restoration from young Lord Gendry’s shoulders—as the capital alone will become quite a huge undertaking—and will make equal the number of subjects both he and King Jon will need to care for.”

“The Riverlands will now fall under the North’s dominion,” said Edmure Tully.

“As will the Vale,” Robin Arryn added. Lord Royce beside him gave a firm nod of assent.

Sansa couldn’t believe what was happening. She turned a look of surprise on Jon, barely able to contain her smiles. When she finally returned home to Winterfell, he would be with her. It almost seemed too good to be true.

Ser Garth stood and, with his forefinger, drew an invisible line along the southern and western borders of the Riverlands. “Lord Gendry will rule as King of the South and his dominion will be over the Crownlands, Stormlands, Westerlands, and the Reach.”

Jon watched the lords and ladies of those territories exchange looks and quiet words, before they gazed down at the other end of the table where their future king was seated. One by one, they all voiced, “Aye.” A surge of relief flooded through him. The plan they’d decided on the night before inside Gendry’s tent had been accepted by the gathered nobles. It had a real chance at being successful, with Westeros being ruled over by those who sought to serve the people, and not themselves or solely the rich and powerful. That those who were about to rule truly regarded one another as friends.

Gendry beamed with a look of pride. “And there will be peace between the North and the South.”

They all turned to look at Jon, who nodded with a smile. “Aye, we will have peace. The sons of Prince Rhaegar and King Robert will form a lasting alliance, one that will never be broken.”

“Good,” spoke Lord Paxter of the Arbor. “And the surest way to seal an alliance is with a marriage. A betrothal to either of Lord Eddard Stark’s daughters would do nicely.”

While the others around the table murmured their agreement, Sansa turned and met Jon’s gaze. Their eyes met and held for a moment before they both turned to look at their sister. Arya gulped. She had suspected something like this would happen. She still didn’t know if she would ever want to be married, to be lady to a lord, and while she had once told Gendry that any lady would be lucky to have him, the thought of him with someone else now filled her with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wanted him, she admitted to herself. She wanted to be with him. But a queen, and everything that came along with it…

Gendry then spoke up. “Only if they would want to, my lord. I don’t mean to force any woman to be with me, and certainly not any fine highborn ladies who may be used to suitors with more polish. I was born in Flea Bottom and my mother worked at an alehouse. I became a blacksmith. I don’t know how to be a king in a castle. I barely know how to be a lord. I’m learning, though. But if _anyone_ may have the idea that I expect the woman who weds me to conduct herself as one would expect the wife of a king, that I would expect her to always look and act like a fine and proper lady, that I’ll make all the decisions and leave her with her sewing needle while I go off with the men to hunt and fight and travel and do whatever the fuck else kings do… Well, I think some may be surprised at the sort of king I plan to be and the sort of queen I would want by my side.”

Sansa stared down, smiling to herself, before turning a knowing smirk at her sister. Arya’s eyes met hers and then she glanced at her brother. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Jon whispered to her, slightly leaning across Sansa seated between them. “Lord Manderly has two eligible granddaughters, and at least one of them would probably be more than willing to become Gendry’s wife. The North and South will make an alliance, no matter what you decide.”

The silence pervaded the table. Lord Royce cleared his throat and made a proposition. “Of course, if there aren’t any available candidates from the North for a marriage alliance with the South, the Vale has some fine ladies from powerful noble Houses who would make Lord Gendry an excellent wife and queen. Lady Anya Waynwood has several daughters to choose from. You will also find eligible young ladies in Houses Belmore and Templeton. I myself have a youngest daughter as well as some lovely granddaughters.”

Arya watched some of the lords at the table nod at his words and begin to talk amongst themselves. She suddenly thought of Sandor Clegane and his last words to her before she’d run out of the Red Keep. Realizing that she’d wanted to choose life, and not death, the first person she’d thought of as she ran out of the crumbling castle was Gendry. More than anything else in that moment, she’d wanted to see him again. _I can be your family,_ a memory whispered in her mind. _You wouldn’t be my family. You’d be my lady,_ another voice whispered. Emotion welled up inside her. _I can be both,_ she thought.

Sighing, Arya rolled her eyes. “All right, I’ll marry you.”

The conversation around the table abruptly halted and everyone turned to look at her. Jon let out a sigh of relief and Sansa’s eyes widened, but Arya only had eyes for Gendry. He beamed at her, a smile spreading across his face like the sunrise. She had to nip that enthusiasm in the bud. “But don’t get any stupid ideas of it happening anytime soon,” she told him. “I agree to a betrothal and the wedding will happen when I say so.”

Gendry raised his hands in defeat, grinning back at her. “As you wish, _my lady_.” His eyes glinted mischievously. Fighting back a smirk, Arya shook her head. He’d pay for that later.

The conversation around the table became excited. A wave of joy surged through Sansa as she reached out and grasped her sister’s hand. She knew Gendry would be a good husband to her, that he would make Arya happy, and that he might be the only one who ever could. “Are you absolutely sure,” she asked quietly as she let go of her hand. “Your happiness is important to me.”

“I’m sure. I do love him, as much as I hate to admit. But don’t tell him that. I want him to squirm for a bit.” Arya grinned. Suddenly she felt seized by unexpected emotion, and her throat tightened. Tears came to her eyes. She really wouldn’t be returning to Winterfell, at least not in the foreseeable future. Her eyes flickered past her sister to Jon, lingering for a moment, and flickered back again. “If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.” She gave her a pointed nod in his direction.

Sansa quickly glanced at him before again meeting her sister’s knowing gaze. She licked her lips and let out a shaky breath. “How did you…? You’re not angry, or…bothered? You were always his favorite. He’d always loved you more.”

Arching her brow, Arya pursed her lips. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. And no, I’m not bothered. I’m still his favorite _sister._ He loves you in a different way, that’s all. If it makes you feel any better, you’re _my_ favorite sister.” She chuckled, but then felt that rush of emotion again and she swallowed against it. “I love you, Sansa.”

Smiling, tears coming to her eyes, she grasped her sister’s hand again. “I love you, too, Arya. I always have, even if I had a terrible way of showing it.”

Her throat tightening, she was unable to speak a reply. Arya gave her a tearful smile and squeezed her hand.

*****

The king’s moot came to a finish, with most plans having been firmed up and accepted. Several marriage pacts were agreed upon between the Reach and the Vale, including the advantageous betrothal of Lord Robin Arryn to Alys Oakheart, the only daughter of Lady Arwyn. In return, Gendry bestowed upon House Oakheart the title Lord Paramount of the Reach, with Arwyn acting as Lady Paramount until her eldest son and heir stepped into the title. To House Redwyne, he granted the title Defender of the South, with the expectation of regular patrols of the Sunset Sea by the Redwyne fleet. In return, Lord Paxter promised to immediately begin construction of a new royal fleet, with the first galley built to be called _King Gendry’s Valor_. He also agreed to the fleet’s transport of the Dothraki back to Essos and the Unsullied to the island of Naath. The title Lady Paramount of the Westerlands was bestowed upon Janei Lannister as well as the right to Casterly Rock, and when old enough, she would be betrothed to a highborn knight or lord from the North.

Restoration of the capital would soon begin, including a new castle for the new king. It had been decided that the Red Keep wouldn’t be rebuilt nor would it be removed. It would remain as is, and would stand as a symbol—a reminder for all future generations of what they must never allow to happen again. The capital was also to be renamed. No longer to be known as the site where Aegon the Conqueror first landed with his army, it would be the place where the realm forged anew under the leadership of a former blacksmith. King’s Landing would become King’s Forge.

When Jon, Sansa, and Arya walked back to the northern camp, along with Brienne and Podrick and escorted by their Stark guardsmen, the sun was setting. They soon entered Sansa’s pavilion, where an evening meal was shortly after brought inside. A platter of roast meat and fresh-baked bread was placed upon the oaken table with a flagon of red Dornish wine, and the five companions ate in comfortable silence. There had been enough discussion for one day.

It wasn’t long before Arya made her excuses and left, Sansa and Jon exchanging amused looks. Their eyes frequently sought one another at the table, their gaze soft and inviting. When Brienne and Podrick had eaten their full, she gave them a knowing smile and then ushered her squire out of the tent, bidding them a good night. Sighing, Sansa felt her stomach fluttering with nerves. They were finally alone.

“Why did you do it,” she asked, her eyes following Jon as he stepped to the other end of the table to pour another cup of wine. “You had a legitimate claim. You could’ve ruled over the whole southern realm, instead of splitting it with another. I’m sure Gendry can be a good king, but you had already proven yourself. He’ll likely struggle in ways you never would. Your birthright, and trueborn status… you just walked away from it.”

“You know why I did it,” Jon said. “It was for you.”

Strong emotion welled up inside her. She’d once believed that no one would ever marry her for love, that the only reason anyone would ever want her was for her claim to Winterfell, for their own ambitions and the power a marriage to her would bring them. And here he stood, with his own claim to power—the heir to a dynasty—and he’d renounced it because he loved her. It was almost unbelievable.

“My birthright to a throne, being trueborn,” he continued softly. “None of it matters without you.” A faint, small sob escaped her throat. She bit it back, tears filling her eyes. “When I thought of a future spent down south, a life without you, I just couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t have been a good king. I would’ve been the most wretched man in the world.”

Jon stepped around the table and took the chair beside Sansa. Her tears welled up and brimmed over, a few escaping down her cheeks. He lifted his hand to her face and brushed them away with such tenderness and yearning that she thought her heart would burst from her chest. “If your place must be Winterfell, then that must be my place as well,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “Where will _we_ go?”

Sansa threw her arms around his neck and cried tears of joy and relief, the emotions she’d pent up for so long finally spilling over. She soon pulled back to look at him with a tearful smile. “Kiss me again,” she whispered. “Like you did this morning. Kiss me. Please.”

Jon smiled as his mouth lifted to cover hers. He kissed her until she thought she would lose her mind with longing, until her heart was full of him. Suddenly she wanted more. She could feel the restless tremors of her body, an indescribable tension coiling tight at her center, a delicious ache, desire surging through her veins. Her fingers were kneading the muscles in his back, their hardness a contrast to his soft mouth, warm and gentle and enticing.

His tongue drew across her lips, coaxing them to open. With a moan, he filled her mouth, and the sound sent shivers through her body. He loved kissing her, loved the way she tasted, the feel of her tongue sliding against his, and the little ripples of pleasure that stirred through her body whenever he deepened the kiss. Desire roared through him, but he reined in his lust. His lips left hers and he kissed across her jaw and down her neck. His hot breath was against her ear, and she felt herself sinking into a dizzying storm of sensation. His lips then found a tender spot behind her ear that made her moan and arch her hips off the chair.

“I want you to touch me,” she gasped, her hands desperately fisting his quilted tunic.

Jon panted for breath. “I want to touch you, too,” he chuckled. “But not yet. Not like this. Not in some dusty tent a thousand miles from Winterfell.” He brought his hand up to hold her face. “I want to marry you in the godswood beneath the heart tree. I want to celebrate my beautiful lady wife at a wedding feast in the Great Hall, surrounded by everyone we love. I want to lay with you in our marriage bed. I want something true and honorable, for once in my life.”

Sansa smiled, beaming brightly, her heart swelling. “I want that, too. All of it.”

He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She brought her hands up to hold his face, her thumbs caressing his cheeks, before sliding down to caress his neck with her fingertips. “We should say goodnight, then,” she whispered.

Jon placed one more kiss upon her lips, slow and gentle and caring, and then left her tent.

The following day, they returned to the feast tent. The Painted Table had been carried away, and the tall black chair of oak and leather had been once again placed in the middle of the tent. There Gendry sat, dressed in a plush black velvet doublet. A shimmering cloth-of-gold half cape was draped casually over one shoulder, fastened with a black stag pin. It would be months before a new throne room could be built, and years before a castle would be completed. The lords and ladies gathered decided that the coronation couldn’t wait.

Jon stood by, Sansa and Arya beside him, watching as Ser Davos Seaworth arrived at the tent after a prolonged absence carrying a rolled cloak in his arms. Setting the cloak down on a small wooden table, he unwrapped it to reveal a crown. Jon thought he had also seen the glimmer of a steel blade inside the rolled cloak, but Davos closed it as quickly as he’d revealed the new crown. The skilled smith and armorer of the Baratheon camp had worked all day and night, he’d told Jon earlier.

Davos stepped over to the chair where the new king sat and held the crown over his head. As he began to lower it, he spoke. “All hail His Grace, Gendry of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and King of the South,” he rang out.

A wave of shouts gave answer, those of the southern kingdoms officially accepting their new king. One by one, all lords and ladies present from the Crownlands, Westerlands, Stormlands, and the Reach, approached the oak-and-leather chair to bend the knee and swear oaths of fealty. The slender circlet around Gendry’s brow suited him well. It was a soft gold, and at the front lifted a stag’s head of smooth, polished black onyx, adorned with golden eyes and golden antlers.

Those belonging to the North’s dominion remained silent, standing in quiet, respectful observance. The northern host, along with the forces belonging to the Vale and the Riverlands, would depart as soon as they could feasibly prepare for departure and break camp. Sansa turned to Jon and tears came to her eyes. The happiness she felt was overwhelming. She wanted to laugh and cry, sing and dance, and shout for joy. Instead, she smiled and said, “Let’s go home.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part One of Jon and Sansa's happy ending because, once again, the story got away from me and I needed to split it into two parts. I try to plan and map out where I want the story to go, but sometimes the characters end up taking longer to get there than I had planned. They tend to take on a life of their own. I hope you enjoy.

On the fifth morning since the coronation on the stony shore of Blackwater Bay, the northern host was preparing to depart the capital. The Unsullied and Dothraki were boarding ships belonging to the Redwyne fleet and would set sail by noon. Sansa stood at the pier with Brienne and Podrick, watching as Tyrion Lannister was escorted by Stark guards down to the docks. It wasn’t long before the prisoner reached her.

“Lady Stark,” he said stiffly.

“Tyrion.” Almost despite herself, a feeling of pity welled up inside as she gazed down at him.

He heaved a sigh. “So, where am I heading? Braavos? Pentos? Volantis?”

She shook her head. “You’re boarding a ship with the Dothraki, and you’ll be sailing for Slaver’s Bay, or the Bay of Dragons, as I guess it’s now called.”

“Meereen?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes, Meereen.”

Tyrion’s brows furrowed in confusion. “But… why Meereen?”

Sansa considered him a moment. “For one, when the ship arrives, the Dothraki will be near their own lands. It would take them many weeks, if not months, if they were forced to travel back home from Braavos or Pentos.” She gazed up at the trading galley, _Arbor Wind_ , where some of the horde were boarding, the bells in their braids ringing softly as they rode their horses up the plank and onto the ship. “Two, the city needs help.”

“Help?”

“Yes.” She turned her gaze back down to him. “When Jon was leaving Winterfell to go back south with Daenerys, I had asked Bran to tell me everything he knew of her, of the sort of queen she’d been in Essos.” Tyrion’s eyes averted from hers. “She left the people of Meereen starving, and in the hands of a sellsword who had no experience in managing a city. A council of former slaves was selected from among their own people to care for these problems, but the problems persist. You said you believed in Daenerys—you believed that she wanted to change the world for the better.”

He sighed. “I did.”

Sansa nodded, entwining her hands in front of her. “She had the potential to do a lot of good for the people in the former slave cities. If only she’d stayed there. Daenerys conquered one city after another, and she may have freed their slaves, but she simply moved on with no concern of what those cities could do to survive in the aftermath. I’ve written the Council of Meereen and offered your assistance. Someone with your knowledge and experience can be of help to them. You’ve already spent some time there and are familiar with the city’s challenges. If you want to do something to amend your mistakes, and perhaps even your dragon queen’s, you can start by giving these people your counsel.”

He swallowed, nodding and lowering his eyes from her direct gaze. Sansa motioned to the guards and they turned, escorting him to the wooden plank of the _Arbor Wind_. She stared after them until Tyrion reached the top and stepped onto the deck and out of her sight. His Stark guards were to remain on the dock until the ship disappeared over the horizon.

Inside the commander’s tent in the northern army’s camp, Jon was overseeing the departure of their armies, ensuring enough provisions for the journey back to Winterfell. Sansa soon joined him after returning from the harbor. Their lords bannermen were gathered with them inside the large tent, along with Robin Arryn, Yohn Royce, and Edmure Tully, finalizing their travel arrangements. Brienne was also in attendance with Podrick, and would again be selecting a group of scouts to ride ahead of the army and screen the kingsroad.

The tent flap lifted and a muscular guardsman with a square red beard and the direwolf sigil emblazoned on his chest stepped inside, bowing his head. “King Gendry has come.”

Everyone looked to Jon. “We’ll leave you two to talk, Your Grace,” Bronze Yohn said, the other lords starting to walk away from the center table.

The guard shook his head. “It’s Lady Sansa he’s requesting to speak to, m’lords.”

While all eyes turned to her, her own widened in surprise. What would he have to speak to her about? She wondered. Was it about Arya? The lords filed out of the tent, and lastly Jon, who gave her a curious smile before disappearing on the other side of the door. She, Brienne, and Podrick were the only ones remaining. Moments later, Gendry and Davos Seaworth entered the tent, a rolled cloak in the Onion Knight’s hands.

“Lady Stark,” the king greeted. His slender crown was gone, but he wore a plush black velvet doublet studded with golden stag’s heads. Beside him, Ser Davos stepped forward and placed the cloak on the large oaken table.

“Your Grace.” She thought he appeared nervous. “May I offer you any food or drink?”

Gendry shook his head. “I thank you, my lady, but no.” His eyes lingered on Brienne for a moment before turning back to her. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve come. Well, there’s two things: a gift and a request.” Sansa’s curiosity piqued. “First, the request,” he continued. “I feel this may be too much to ask, as I know Ser Brienne of Tarth has pledged an oath of service to you, but I wanted to know if there was a possibility she may be freed from your service?”

She stared at him with knitted brows. “Brienne makes her own choices. It was her choice to serve as my sworn sword, and she can leave my service whenever she wishes.”

“Lady Sansa speaks true,” Brienne added. “I serve her because I want to. It was the choice I made because I’d made a promise to her mother.”

“Lady Arya tells me you promised to serve both Lady Catelyn’s daughters,” he said.

She glanced at Sansa. “I did, Your Grace.”

Nodding, Gendry paced about the tent for a moment. “When Lady Arya and I are married, whenever that will be, she will live here with me, in the south. I believe she intends to return south as soon as possible after seeing to… some things… at home. She’ll be my queen, but I’m worried there won’t be anyone here who will be expressly loyal to _her_. Other than myself, of course. She’ll be surrounded by southerners. There won’t be anyone who really knows her. The Stark name holds weight, but not the same kind of… Not the same as in the North, if you know what I mean.”

“So, you’d like Brienne to come to the capital with Arya?” Sansa guessed. “To be her sworn sword?”

“Aye, that was something I’d briefly considered,” he answered, before turning to Brienne. “If you were to swear the Kingsguard vow, would the vow you’d made to Lady Catelyn su…” He turned to Davos, brows furrowing. “Supersede,” the Onion Knight inserted. “Yes, thank you,” Gendry continued. “Supersede the Kingsguard vow?”

She glanced between the two men, her eyes going wide. “What do you mean, Your Grace?”

The king pursed his lips. “If you swore the Kingsguard vow, and the king was doing harm to Lady Arya, would you strike the king himself to protect her? Would you kill the king, if you had to, to save her from him? Do you consider yourself beholden to the promise you made to Catelyn Stark above any other vows you may ever take?”

“Yes, Your Grace, I would,” the knight said in a serious tone, holding her head high. “And I do.”

Gendry smiled and nodded, pleased with her response. “Then if you are willing, _Ser_ , I would like to appoint you Lady Commander of the Kingsguard.”

Brienne’s mouth fell open. Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat and she turned a bright, excited smile on her friend. Podrick beamed at her. She was rendered speechless, not ever having expected anything like this.

“Keep in mind the Kingsguard is a sworn brotherhood,” the king said. “Vows are taken for life. Only death can relieve you. The Commander would also sit on the Small Council, so I’ll not only need your valiant skills as a knight, but your advice and counsel. So, if you need some time to think it over...”

Podrick shook his head. Brienne looked at her squire and held back a smirk. “I am honored by such an offer, Your Grace.” She then glanced at Sansa for a moment. “But perhaps I should… take some time and talk it over with my lady.”

The Lady of Winterfell met her gaze, wondering if her sworn sword felt an obligation to remain with her. She turned to the king. “You said you also came here for something else, a gift?”

Gendry turned to his new Hand. “Yes.”

Ser Davos stepped to the table again and began unrolling the cloak. Sansa moved closer as the last portion of fabric was pulled away. Wrapped up in the cloak had been a sword. The white wolf’s head pommel was blackened, and had partly melted off, and the hilt had been burned, but she instantly recognized it as Longclaw. Tears came to her eyes. “How did you get this?” she wondered, leaning forward and running her fingertips along the dark steel.

“I’m a smuggler, ain’t I?” Davos replied, grinning. “Jon told me he’d lost his sword in the Red Keep’s throne room. I could tell he was broken up about it. So…” She could hear the emotion in his voice. He cleared his throat. “Well, I couldn’t just leave it there in the rubble. It’s Valyrian steel.”

“Some parts of the blade are damaged, but it might be repairable,” Gendry added. “The master smith I worked for, Tobho Mott, could work Valyrian steel. I watched him many times, but I never acquired that skill myself. I’d repair the blade if I could.”

Her throat tightening, Sansa turned and threw her arms around the Onion Knight’s shoulders. “Thank you, Davos,” she whispered tearfully.

He smiled, somewhat embarrassed, and patted her back. “No need to thank me, my lady. We thought you’d like to be the one to give it back to him.”

She pulled out of the hug and smiled down at the sword. “It’ll be a surprise. I’ll have it remade and then gift it to him as a wedding present.”

“Is Jon getting married?” Gendry asked, surprised.

“Yes, when we return to Winterfell. You’ll be invited, of course, Your Grace.”

A look of dawning realization came over the king’s face as he locked eyes with Davos. The knight chuckled to himself. “Well, that explains a few things,” he said amusedly.

Sansa averted her eyes, her cheeks turning red. She glanced at Brienne, who smiled knowingly, and at Podrick, barely able to fight the grin from spreading across his face. She then covered the steel blade in the cloak once more and handed it to the squire, where he held it under his arm. As Ser Davos and the king bowed and turned to leave the tent, she called out. “Wait, please, Your Grace.” He turned back to look at her. “I have my own request.”

“Anything,” Gendry replied.

Motioning for him to take a seat at the table, Sansa gathered a crisp roll of white parchment along with a quill and a pot of black ink. As Gendry seated himself, she placed the materials in front of him. “A king can remove the taint of bastardy with a stroke,” she said. “By blood Jon is half Stark. I want him to have his mother’s name—his true name. When we wed, I can give him the name, but I want something in writing. I want Jon to be able to hold it in his hands, to see the words written and sealed by a king. It’s what he’s always wanted since he was a boy.”

His mouth curving into a slight smile, Gendry turned to Davos, who reached into his cloak to pull yellow wax and the royal seal, a crowned stag, from an inside pocket. These were placed on the table beside the pot of black ink and then the king began to write.

*****

They were soon traveling north on the kingsroad. When they reached the Crossroads Inn, joining up with Brienne and her scouts, the van broke up. Edmure Tully took the river road back to Riverrun while Lords Arryn and Royce took the knights of the Vale on the high road to the Eyrie. After two days of rest at the inn, Jon and Sansa and Arya and the northern army continued on the kingsroad. When they reached the Neck, the weather changed. They rode through heavy spring rain and some days they never saw the sun. At Moat Cailin, the Manderly force left the road to ride for White Harbor.

When they rode through the Barrowlands, the first heart-lifting signs of spring in the North were everywhere. The plains were greening, wildflowers bloomed along the kingsroad, and fresh leaves were budding on the trees as a gentle wind blew over them. Beyond the road, Jon and Sansa could see that some farmers had already started plowing and planting their fields. Lambs that had been newly born were grazing next to their mothers.

As they came up over a crest of a grassy hill just before sunset, Winterfell suddenly appeared in the distance along with the nearby winter town. Emotion seized Jon at the sight and his eyes filled with tears. When he’d left, he had doubted whether he’d ever see it again, and now he was returning, with Sansa by his side. How different a procession home this was to the last one, accompanied by Daenerys and her armies. Now he only felt happiness and relief, instead of anguish and regret. Smiling, Sansa reached over and grasped his hand. He held tight, squeezing it for a moment before letting go.

It wasn’t long before bells were heard in the distance; their van had been spotted. When they reached the winter town, the people gathered outside their homes and shops to stand alongside the kingsroad to watch them pass through. Smiling faces greeted them, bowing their heads as they rode past. With most of their men remaining behind to seek out accommodation in the town, the Starks followed the kingsroad through the market square and to the castle’s East Gate. The great main gates had a gatehouse with two large crenelated bulwarks that flanked the arched gate. The sound of a horn rang out and the gate rose. Jon, Sansa, and Arya rode through and into the castle courtyard. They were finally home.

Bran was there waiting to greet them. Jon got down from his horse and walked towards him, Sansa and Arya following. He leaned down and hugged his brother. “It feels good to see you again,” he said with a smile.

“I’m sorry for all that happened to you in the south,” Bran replied, his face as passive as ever.

“As am I,” he sighed. He then stepped aside so that Sansa and Arya could greet their brother.

A welcoming feast had been prepared for them and they dined together in the Great Hall. Their lords bannermen and weary soldiers who’d accompanied them on the long journey back north filled the benches. The wine lifted their hearts and the food warmed their bellies. When the meal was finished, the Starks took the dimly-lit gallery that led from the hall to the Great Keep, retreating to Jon and Sansa’s office chamber. There they sat around the stone hearth, the crackling fire filling the room with warmth.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Jon and Sansa shared a look, words passing unspoken between them, and he nodded. She turned to her siblings. “We have something we’d like to tell you,” she said. Arya and Bran tore their eyes from the fire and met her gaze. “Jon and I are going to be married.”

“I figured,” Arya said at the same time Bran said, “I know.”

Jon snorted. Sansa nodded her head slowly, her mouth curving into a smirk. “Well, okay, then.”

“When?” their sister asked.

“Well, we’d like it to be tomorrow, but that’s just not feasible,” Sansa smiled. “We’re not sure when, but as soon as possible. We’re to have an audience with the northern lords to discuss it. Then ravens will need to be sent out and invitations made. We’ll have to allow time for travel, as we expect there to be some people from the south attending, including Gendry. We don’t know what sort of retinue he’ll be traveling with. We may have to enlarge the winter town to house everyone.”

Arya gazed into the crackling fire for a moment. “I’ll be going back south with Gendry after you’re married. Lord Redwyne is building me my own ship for personal use as a wedding gift. He’s going to call it _The She-Wolf’s Dagger_.” She looked down, slightly embarrassed. “There are also to be ships of the royal fleet named in my honor— _Drogon’s Bane, Faceless Lady, Nymeria’s Bite, Wolf Maiden_.”

Grinning, Jon looked over at her. “That’s what you get for defeating the Night King, blinding a dragon, saving the realm, and becoming a queen,” he teased. “But what do you need your own ship for?”

“What’s west of Westeros,” she wondered aloud. “And I’m not a queen yet. Me and Gendry won’t be married right away, you know. It’ll be a year or more before his new castle is even built. So, I’m going to travel for a while.” She smiled. “He might come with me. I’ve convinced him to sail around Westeros and visit the places and people he’ll be ruling over. So, we’re to sail to Tarth and around to the Arbor, then on to Oldtown and Lannisport. But I haven’t convinced him to go west with me yet. He says he has duties as king and can’t just fuck off to the unknown.”

“He’s right,” Sansa replied. “But uncharted waters… It’ll be dangerous. I know you’re capable and you can take care of yourself, but… What if something happens to you? What if you fall sick? Or you come upon hostile territories? Or you face shipwreck? What if you don’t come back?”

She considered her sister’s words. “Sometimes you have to take risks. I won’t be gone too long. I promised Gendry I’d be back in a year’s time, no matter what happens or what I might find. If I’m not back in a year, he says he’ll send the royal fleet after me to bring me home.”

Sansa still couldn’t help but feel worried. “A lot can happen in a year at sea.”

“I know, but the feeling I had when I stood on the bow of the _Titan’s Daughter_ and sailed away for Braavos… I want that feeling again. There’s so much I want to do and see while I’m still young and free enough to see and do them.” She then got up to fetch more wood for the fire.

“She will be all right,” Bran suddenly whispered to Jon and Sansa. “Don’t worry.”

They turned and stared at him. “Well, that settles that, I guess,” said Jon quietly, a confused grin spreading across his face. He didn’t know if he would ever understand Bran’s abilities or where they came from and why, but he was thankful for them nonetheless. Not long after, they retired when the fire inside the hearth died down. Arya took Bran to his first-floor bedchamber while Jon and Sansa headed to the lord’s tower that led up to the family rooms.

They walked up the first staircase in comfortable silence and then the second, but the higher they climbed, the more tension between them grew. Soon the tension was palpable. The air was heavy with suppressed desire, with the quiet yearning of their hearts. When they reached the landing before the last spiral staircase that would lead straight to the lord’s chambers and a waiting, watchful guard, Sansa turned and pushed Jon against the wall.

Taken by surprise, his eyes went wide for a moment. She then bent her head and kissed him in a slow, warm kiss that deepened until their mouths were open and Jon’s tongue was sliding against hers, lazily caressing, sending sparks of feeling through her. His hands left her waist and his arms encircled her, holding her tight. He loved the feel of her body pressed against his. Her hands, which had been resting on his arms, moved up to his shoulders and around his neck. Still the kiss went on with a slow passion until at last Sansa released his mouth. “Make love to me,” she breathed against his lips.

Need gripped his belly, his arousal instant, relentless and powerful. His heart pounded inside his chest. “We’re in Winterfell now, and not in some dusty tent,” she whispered, gazing at him with eyes that had become a darker shade of blue. “But you’re not my wife yet,” he said. “I’m not your husband.”

Her fingertips caressed his face and slid down his throat. “You are in my heart.” Jon smiled, his eyes soft and tender. “What if we go down to the godswood right now and say a few words in front of the heart tree,” she said teasingly. “And then we’ll come back here. No one will have to know.”

He chuckled. “We’ll elope to the godswood.”

“Why not?” she said, laughing quietly.

“No more secrets,” Jon whispered. “I want to stand in front of everyone we love and marry my beautiful sister.”

She laughed again and then corrected him. “Cousin.”

He nodded, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders. “…Right.”

Knitting her brows, she gave hm a curious look. “Do you still think of me as your sister?”

Jon’s face reddened and he averted his eyes from hers. “It’s been difficult for me to call you ‘cousin.’” He sighed. “There are no… feelings… attached to that word. It has no meaning for me.”

Her fingers still softly caressing his neck, she nodded. “I understand.”

“But _sister_ …” He pulled her flush against him once more. “Makes me think of you.” Jon pressed his lips to her throat. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” he murmured against her skin. Contentment made her shudder. “I love you.” His voice was still muffled into her neck. Her body reacted with lust and her hips thrust toward him. He moaned softly against her throat, the sound arousing her even more.

“Targaryens,” she sighed, teasing him.

He laughed and pulled his face back to look at her. “What about your Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys?”

She licked her lips, nodding. “Yes, but they met a tragic end.”

“We won’t,” Jon said firmly, his eyes blazing with a sudden fierce determination.

“No.” Sansa smiled, her sparkling gaze warm and tender. “We won’t.”

*****

A week after they’d returned home, Lord Wyman Manderly arrived with his son Ser Wylis, bringing with them carts of food and goods from White Harbor. The northern lords then gathered in the Great Hall for an audience with the Starks. Jon sat upon the high seat, with Sansa to his left and Bran to his right. Arya was also seated at the table with them beside her sister. The lords were allowed their time to speak first, each bringing their own concerns and requests for their holdfasts and lands. Jon remained silent throughout while the Lady of Winterfell made decisions, dispensing her advice and judgment.

“Now that the North is once again a free and independent kingdom,” Sansa spoke to the room. Those gathered cheered at her words. “There are important matters we need to discuss regarding the governance of our kingdom. Too many noble Houses have been extinguished—families that were loyal to House Stark for centuries. Castles stand empty, fertile lands untouched. Spring is here and we’ll need people to take ownership of these lands, to plow and plant for the future harvest.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Lord Rickon Ryswell said as he stood from his bench. “But decisions about governance should start at the top.” He paused, hesitating for a moment, before steeling himself. “What’s to be done about Jon Snow? We crowned him our king. We believed he was Ned Stark’s son. And then he bent the knee to the Mad King’s daughter, his _aunt_.” The air in the hall suddenly changed. The ensuing silence was heavy with a rising tension and expectation.

“We never actually got to crown him,” Lord Kyle Cerwyn then called out from his seat. “It wasn’t even a month after we’d named him king that he left for Dragonstone. There was no coronation, my lord.”

“And one of the last things Jon Snow said to us before he left, my lady,” continued Rickon, pointedly ignoring the Lord of Cerwyn and stepping out to the aisle. “Was that he’d never asked us to make him king—he’d never wanted it. The North needs a king who _wants_ to rule over us, who _wants_ to lead us.”

“Jon Snow led us through the Long Night and he killed the Targaryen queen,” Wyman Manderly said hotly, standing up to address Lord Ryswell. “He killed that Bolton bastard and avenged the Red Wedding. If Jon Snow and the Lady Sansa had never won back Winterfell, we would all be corpses in the Night King’s army. Lord Bran and Lady Arya would never have come back to us. We would never have won our independence. Jon Snow may not be Ned Stark’s son, but he’s Lady Lyanna’s son. He’s Ned Stark’s blood, raised here in Winterfell, and we owe him our lives.”

While those gathered in the Great Hall began murmuring quietly, discussing the matter amongst themselves, Jon turned to look at Sansa. She gave him an encouraging nod, silently prompting him to speak for himself. His guts twisting into knots, he stood at the table and the hall quieted. “You’re right,” he spoke to the room. “I said those words. I had never wanted to be a king. Growing up believing myself to be a bastard, to be a king was never something I thought about. It was never something I sought for myself.”

Sansa remembered the way he’d looked at her as they all had shouted “King in the North.” Being king was something he’d never asked for, true, but when they made him one, he wanted it. She knew he did. It was written all over his face. “But when I told you all that being named your king was the greatest honor of my life,” Jon continued. “I spoke truly. The pride and acceptance I felt on that day… I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel the likes of it again.” She smiled to herself, thinking of the scroll tucked away in her chamber, the one with the king’s seal. She had yet to show him, or even reveal her plan for making him a Stark at their wedding, hoping to surprise him on the day.

“More than anything, I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to be a good king, and to rule well. And yes, I then bent the knee.” He sighed. “I bent the knee to save the North. Not only from the Army of the Dead, which would have surely defeated us without her dragons and armies, but from Daenerys Targaryen herself. What happened to King’s Landing could have easily happened here. I made a choice, my lords. I regret if that choice let you down in any way, if it caused you disappointment or made you lose faith in me. But I promise you, I have only ever done what I thought was best to serve the North. I promised you that I’d never stop fighting for it. I never will.”

The gathered lords and ladies along with their heirs and highborn knights of their Houses all began to murmur their acceptance of these words. A few men against the back wall shouted, “King in the North!” Jon felt the air in the room start to change, felt the tension dissipating. Others began to join in the shouting.

“But I made mistakes,” he continued, raising his voice over the din. The hall quieted once more. “I took our men down south to fight for Daenerys, and a city was slaughtered. I am to blame for leading our men into folly. This will forever blacken my conscience, and I’ll carry this burden until the end of my days. If none of you now believed me fit to rule, I wouldn’t disagree with you. A king needs someone by his side—someone he loves and trusts—to show him the right path, to help him make wise decisions and avoid folly.”

Sansa watched as Jon’s gaze found hers. Their eyes met and held, and she gave him a sympathetic smile. He then turned back to the room. “Lady Stark ruled well and wisely in my absence. If anyone is worthy of leading the North, it’s Ned Stark’s daughter. There is no one’s counsel and companionship I value more in this world. I have asked my _cousin_ , the Lady Sansa, to marry me, and she has accepted.”

The Great Hall erupted with shouts and cheers. “The wolves will come again,” bellowed Lord Manderly. Sansa smiled through the tears filling her eyes. Jon turned to look at her, returning her smile, but then his face grew serious again. She realized he had something else to say, but she knew not what.

“She will become my queen,” he told the crowd to yet more cheers. He waited for them to die down. “But she won’t be a queen in name only, not just a consort for a king. She will be equal to me in everything—sharing power and authority and the final word in all matters, be it laws or punishments. Lady Sansa and I will serve the North as joint rulers, king _and_ queen, together. Following our wedding ceremony in the godswood, we will have a joint coronation.”

She stared at him in shock as the crowd erupted with thunderous cheers. Those gathered leapt to their feet, their joyful cries filling the Great Hall. Sansa looked to Arya, who was giving her an excited smile, and to Bran, who seemed pleased. Sometime later, as the people began to return to the courtyard, exiting through the wide doors of oak and iron, she made her way down the dimly-lit gallery to the Great Keep with Jon beside her.

“In future, when we share equal power and authority,” she said, her lips curving into a smirk. “You really will have to start running these things by me in private before you just go announcing them in the Great Hall.”

Jon laughed, turning to gently push Sansa up to the grey stone wall. He then pressed his lips passionately against hers. She melted into his arms and clung to him as the kiss deepened and grew in intensity. Small sounds of satisfaction escaped their throats as they kissed long, hard, and deep. They ached to free themselves of their clothing and touch each other’s skin. She finally broke the kiss, gasping for breath. “I’m tired of waiting,” she panted.

“I know,” he breathed against her lips. “But in just three months, we’ll be wed. I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine.” Jon’s fingers caressed her face and throat, and he gazed at her as though he couldn’t believe she was there. Sansa could see the love in his eyes. “My queen,” he whispered.

She shuddered from her fingers to her toes as once again his lips molded to hers, gentle, persuasive, insistent. Her arms went around his shoulders and her fingers tangled in the thick black curls of his hair. She felt his strength beneath her fingers, his flesh so warm and responsive to even her slightest touch. The earthy male scent of him enfolded around her like a sweet intoxication. She felt her breasts stiffen against his chest, with his heart pounding like mad inside. The feel of her lips on his, her hair brushing his face like silk, her body pressed against him—all sent a possessive, hot need to pool in his groin in a painful ache. Her hips arched into his as his mouth moved on hers, warm and supple, a pressure that sent spasms tightening in the pit of her stomach. When they finally broke free of the kiss, each panting for breath, the same thought crossed both their minds: it was going to be a long three months.

*****

Over the next week, Jon began putting much of the northern army to work expanding the winter town and repairing any damage from the battle against the Army of the Dead. In the evenings, Sansa feasted as many as she could. Every night, the Great Hall was full to bursting. On the benches below the Stark table, Winterfell men and women mixed with the smallfolk of the winter town, northern lords from nearer holdfasts and their families together with their escorts. The air inside the hall was always joyous. The serving men brought their dishes to the Starks first, and then moved about the tables, followed by serving girls with their flagons of mead. Platters of sweets were sent around to the children, courtesy of the Lady of Winterfell. The musicians also added to the merriment, and they played well, but horn and fiddle and harp were usually drowned out by talk and laughter.

Yet as the days and nights progressed, Sansa couldn’t help but notice that Jon grew quieter and quieter at these feasts, and increasingly sullen. Whenever he’d meet her eye, he’d smile and she would see love and tenderness in his gaze, but sadness as well. She wondered if he lingered on the past, if his memories plagued him. She wanted to question him, but thought better of it; he would tell her when he was ready.

A fortnight after they’d come home, Sansa returned to the lord’s chambers following a session with the seamstress from White Harbor to find Jon sitting on the edge of her canopied bed. Her breath hitched at the surprise, and he looked at her with apprehension.

“There’s something I need to do, somewhere I need to go. I know I promised I’d never leave you again, but… I have to.”

Sansa felt as though her heart had lodged in her throat. “Where do you have to go?”

Jon stood up from the bed and sighed. “Up north… Beyond the Wall. And I don’t know where, exactly. It might take some time to find the right place.”

“Why beyond the Wall?” She stepped closer to him, her eyes pleading.

“I need Ghost.” He swallowed. “I know he’s in good hands with Tormund, and I know it’s probably better for him to have wide open spaces to roam instead of a castle. But…” Averting his eyes from hers, he moved about the bedchamber restlessly. “For a while, the happiness I felt over you and being home again was enough. I’ve never been this happy. But day after day, there’s this… feeling… that’s been growing. And though I count myself the happiest and luckiest of men, I can’t help but feel…” He held out his hands, at a loss for words.

Tears came to her eyes. “Empty.” He nodded silently. Memories flooded back. Sansa remembered that fateful day on the kingsroad when Lady had been cruelly taken from her, and the nights she’d cried herself to sleep. She remembered her years of captivity in King’s Landing, alone and without her wolf. She remembered the nights when she had wanted to die, hoping she would meet Lady again if she did.

“Then you should go.”

“But I might not make it back in time,” he lamented. So much depended on where Tormund and the rest of the wildlings were, whether they’d stuck to the lands close to the Wall or had gone even further north. “The journey could end up delaying the wedding and the coronation, and I know that…” The words trailed off in another sigh.

She moved closer to him. She knew how much of his happiness was tied to Ghost. _Wolves wed for life._ That had been her father’s words when she’d been given Lady as a pup. _You take one and that’s a marriage. The wolf is a part of you from this day on, and you’re a part of her. Both of you will change, and neither of you will be whole without the other._ She lifted her hand to stroke his cheek. “Go get your direwolf, Jon.”

Letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he stood there, gazing at her, drinking her in. Words couldn’t express all that he felt for her. He pulled her face to his and kissed her deeply. After breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I love you, Sansa.”

The following morning, she stood in the courtyard and watched him mount his horse, a small garrison of Stark guardsmen doing the same. It was a journey of twenty-one days to Castle Black. When he neared the main gate, Jon turned back to look at her once more. His love for Sansa struck him profoundly, rising up from somewhere deep in his soul, and he gazed at her, his mouth curving into a smile.

She returned his smile, a thousand unspoken words passing between them, and then he rode through the gate, disappearing from view. Later, she sat with Bran in her office chamber, discussing ideas of what was to be done with several northern castles that now stood empty. Soon came a knock at the door and in stepped Brienne of Tarth.

“My lady.” She nodded at Bran. “My lord.”

Sansa noticed the sword in her hand, sheathed in a leather scabbard, and the anxious expression on her face. “Yes, Brienne?”

Her sworn sword averted her eyes. “This had been left in my bedchamber,” Brienne said, holding out the sword and placing it on the table. “The one I had been taken to using before our journey south, the one I had briefly shared with…” Brienne trailed off. “I have been using a different chamber upon our return, but I returned to the former today just to…” She cleared her throat.

“Yes.” She felt a rush of sympathy and gave her a kind smile. She then looked down at the sword. The hilt was made of red leather and garishly studded with golden lions’ heads. The lions had ruby eyes. She instantly recognized it.

Brienne unsheathed the sword. “Valyrian steel.” She paused for a moment.

Frowning, Sansa eyed the blade. “Widow’s Wail,” she said derisively, shaking her head. “Gods, Joffrey was an ass.”

“Yes, my lady.” She cleared her throat. “If you recall, I had once spoke to you of Oathkeeper’s origins and I had told you that honor compelled me to surrender your father’s steel back your House.”

Sansa nodded. “When we were at Castle Black. I remember.” She had appreciated the gesture, but felt it unnecessary at the time. Jon had Longclaw and she wasn’t about to start carrying a sword. It would best be served in the hands of her sworn sword.

Tilting her head towards Widow’s Wail, Brienne gave her a pointed look. “Ned Stark’s greatsword was forged into _two_ blades.” Sansa stared at it, anger flooding her stomach at the thought of Joffrey ever wielding her father’s steel. “If you find a blacksmith who can work Valyrian steel, then Ice can be remade.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. To renew her father’s blade…

“When you and Jon Snow marry,” Brienne continued. “You will come under his protection and your home will be Winterfell. After the wedding, I mean to accept Gendry Baratheon’s offer to join his Kingsguard. While I consider my vow to Lady Catelyn a vow for life, I believe Oathkeeper has served its purpose. I won’t be taking it with me to the capital. I will leave it here, with you, along with Ser Jaime’s sword. They rightfully belong to House Stark.”

Sansa was rendered speechless, and she watched as Brienne loosened her sword belt. When she laid Oathkeeper on the table beside Widow’s Wail, the words finally came. “No.” She walked around the table to stand beside the knight, suspecting how much the sword truly meant to her. “Oathkeeper is yours.”

Brienne shook her head. “But, my lady…”

Lifting the sword from the table, gripping its sheath, she pushed it back into her hands. “For all that you’ve done for me and for my family, Oathkeeper belongs to you. My mother would want you to have it. I know she would. And she would want you to use it to keep my sister safe while she’s in the south. Oathkeeper still has a purpose. And besides, it’s only fitting for the Lady Commander of the Kingsguard to carry Valyrian steel.”

Eyes filling with tears, Brienne accepted the sword. “Thank you, my lady.”

Sansa watched her leave the office chamber and close the door behind her. She again stared down at Widow’s Wail on the table. Then her thoughts drifted up to the burned and damaged sword she kept hidden in the wardrobe of the lord’s chambers. Her heart began to pound with excitement as an idea came to mind. She turned to her brother.

“Can you… see…,” she asked him, gesturing into the air, “how Valyrian steel was forged? Would you be able to help a skilled blacksmith learn to do it?”

Bran almost smiled. “Yes.” He paused for a moment. “You better write to him.”

Staring at her brother, she knitted her brows. “Him?”

“The blacksmith you’re going to use,” he answered. “He will have to leave for the North right away if you want it done in time for your wedding.”

Sansa smiled and began counting the days until Jon’s return.

**Author's Note:**

> References: 
> 
> [Map of Westeros](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/e/e7/Map_of_westeros.jpg)
> 
> [Map of King's Landing](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/File:Kings_landing_map.png)


End file.
